


Lay it on the Line

by Lecavayay, verbaeghe



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Character Death, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Idiots in Love, It takes them a hot minute but they get there, Kidnapping, M/M, POV Alternating, Some of this E is for sexy times, Tampa Bay Lightning, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-05-28 08:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 37,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19390333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lecavayay/pseuds/Lecavayay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbaeghe/pseuds/verbaeghe
Summary: Carle's taking too long, so Tony goes looking for him. He spots him about five hundred yards out and waves for him. Carle looks up, sees him.And fucking books it.“Hey!” Tony shouts, racing after him.He considers drawing his gun but he’s never been that great at hitting moving targets. He doesn’t want to risk shooting him somewhere important when he’s aiming for a knee. Carle doesn’t deserve a quic---.A 2x4 smacks Carle in the face, knocking him out cold.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mob au. Everyone is bad. If you see your favorite player doing something shitty, well, they all are pretty shitty, but our POV guys don't think _they_ are.
> 
> This is finished, but since it's long, we'll be posting 2-3 times a week (based on our schedule) 
> 
> Last warning: There will be violence, we mean srs bzsns :p
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s hot in Tampa, which is shocking to absolutely no one. 

A bead of sweat drips off the end of Tony’s hair, under the collar of his shirt, and twists down his spine. It’s not the first and it certainly won’t be the last of the day. The breeze off the Bay does nothing to temper the suffocating humidity. Tony’s been standing on this dock for well over twenty minutes and the back of his shirt is drenched. 

The job should’ve been done in ten. 

He turns around to try and make out what’s happening with the deal, squints the few docks down where they’re all just standing around. He clips and unclips the safety on his gun. Holsters it and unholsters it. All nervous ticks. 

The job should be done already. 

He turns his back once again, scans the open space for any threats trying to sneak up on him. Or cops sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong. It’s all clear. 

He wipes the sweat off the back of his neck, clips and unclips the safety. Holsters it. 

And then there’s shouting. Tony doesn’t know who it is but he turns just in time to see one of the men take off, feet pounding on the warped wood of the docks. He gets closer to where Tony’s slipped into the shadows and he can tell it’s the younger one, Vatrano. Frankie’s a lot like him, born and raised in the life. Introduced to a gun before he even started school. 

He’s not as smart as Tony, though. 

He waits until Frankie is within reach and tackles him, getting his arm twisted up behind him and his cheek mashed into the dock with ease. “What happened?” he asks, doing away with Frankie’s gun and the knife he has strapped to his ankle. “Why are you running from a deal you set up?”

“I didn’t set this up,” Frankie spits. “Your capo’s got a bit of a long leash, eh? Or are you just as dirty as him?”

Tony’s the capo on this job but Carle’s the one making the deal. Son of a bitch. He pulls a zip tie out and gets it around Frankie’s wrists. “Stay here.” 

“Yeah, I’m not fucking goin’ anywhere, am I?” Frankie shouts after him. “Asshole!” 

Carle’s still down by the water talking to the other Panther that showed up. Tony’s trying to be quiet, not give himself away, but the docks creak with almost every step. He gets too close, Carle spots him. 

And fucking books it. 

“Hey!” Tony shouts, racing after him. 

He considers drawing his gun but he’s never been that great at hitting a moving target where he wants. Doesn’t want to risk shooting him in the heart when he’s aiming for a knee. Carle doesn’t deserve a quic---.

A 2x4 smacks Carle in the face, knocking him out cold.

Or rather, a guy about Tony’s height wearing dirty clothes and a smirk knocks him out cold. With a 2x4. 

“Nice play,” Tony says, trying to catch his breath. He wipes at the sweat pearling along his forehead. “Where’d you come from?”

The guy shrugs, drops his piece of wood. “Around.”

Tony falls to his knees, gets Carle’s hands behind his back and does up his wrists with another zip tie. “You got a name?”

“Mikhail.” 

Tony stands and realizes quickly that Mikhail is not at all his height. He looks up at him and offers a grin. “Thanks for bailing me out, Mikhail.”

“Right place, right time.” 

“And good instincts.” Tony kicks the wood Mikhail dropped. “I’m Tony. D’you know any of these guys?” 

Mikhail looks at Carle, still passed out on the dock, and squints toward where Frankie is, no doubt yelling various swear words just out of earshot. “No. But the guy who got away comes down here all the time.”

Hoffman. Slippery as ever. “How long have you been here?”

“Couple weeks.”

Mikhail looks it. His clothes are ratty and his hair is pretty greasy, patchy stubble all along his jaw. He’s sunburnt across his nose and the tops of his cheeks, ears red. Still pretty buff, though. “Anyone else hanging around?”

“Just me, mostly.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweats. “Some legit fishermen and dockhands.” 

“How do you know they’re legit?” At this point Tony’s just toying with him. 

“There’s a look to it. How they carry themselves, like they’re not looking over their shoulder.” 

That’s a pretty good answer.

“Rocco!” That sounds like Cally, here with the car. “What the fuck are you doing? Let’s go!”

“You need a place to stay?” Tony asks Mikhail. “Or at least a hot meal and a shower?”

“What?”

“I’m a capo in the Tampa mob, I’m offering you sanctuary. Yes or no, bus is leaving.”

Mikhail’s tongue pokes out to wet his bottom lip. “Okay, yeah.” 

Tony smiles, hopes it doesn’t scare him off. “Help me lug this guy to the trunk?”

//

The house is pretty quiet when they get back. Mikhail waits while Tony and Cally wrestle a fully awake Carle out of the trunk and into another zip tie.

“Wish we had a gag for you, you backstabbing dick,” Cally spits. “You want him in the beauty parlor?”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “I’ll tell Stammer.”

“A-are you sure I should be here?” Mikhail stutters as Cally hauls Carle toward the house. “I can just go back...I don’t want to bother you. You seem to be, uh, busy?”

“Nah,” he says, wiping his hands off on his shorts. “That’s all taken care of. Let me show you inside, I’ll grab you a change of clothes.”

Tony gets Mikhail settled in the second floor bathroom with a set of Louis’ sweats that look to be about his size. “I’ll be around, if you need anything.”

Tony goes upstairs first, to the third floor apartment where Stammer is often hidden. He’s none too pleased to see Tony. 

“What happened?” he asks, stretched out on one of the overstuffed couches at the top of the stairs.

“I don’t come up here  _ only _ to deliver bad news,” Tony scoffs. 

“Tony.”

“Carle’s in the beauty parlor. He needs some of your tender love and care. When you have a chance.” 

“Why?”

“Caught him making a side deal with Hoffman.”

“What the fuck,” Stammer hisses. “You told me he was a traitor months ago. I should’ve listened.”

“Hoffman got away but we picked up Vatrano, he’s pretty green to know much of anything. Probably not worth our time to keep.”

“Sounds like the whole thing went real well then.” 

Tony bounces his head side-to-side. “Might’ve found Carle’s replacement. So not all bad.”

“You what?” Stammer’s on his feet now, heading for the painting that hangs over the mantle, covering his personal safe. 

“There was a kid on the docks, he helped us get Carle. I offered him a shower and a meal. But I think he could stay.”

“You think he could stay.” Stammer unlocks his safe and pulls out a gun and a pair of brass knuckles. 

“Seems like a nice guy. Trainable.”

“What did he do, again?”

“He smacked Carle in the face with a 2x4,” Tony deadpans.

Stammer smiles. “Seems like his head is in the right place. Who do you think I should get to vet him?”

“I’ll do it.”

Stammer raises his eyebrows. “Something special about this guy?”

Tony scoffs. “I’ve got some free time, that’s all.” 

“Okay, Rocco.” 

Tony doesn’t appreciate his judgemental tone. 

//

Tony gets Mikhail set up in one of the empty rooms on the second floor. It’s got a pull-out couch and a desk, a small side table, and a hidden wall of hooks for various weapons and tactical gear. Everything a person could want.

“A bit small for now,” he says. “But it’ll do for the night. If you’ll be staying.”

Mikhail takes in the room, walks over to the little window and peers down into the alley.

“The glass is bulletproof. If you’re worried.” 

“I wasn’t,” Mikhail says. “But now I might be.” 

Tony waits him out. 

“I’ll stay. Thank you.” 

“Perfect,” he says. “Will you be hungry? There’s a kitchen on the first floor, we can have dinner.” 

“Just us?”

“Not many of the other guys live here.” 

“Okay, yeah. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me.”

“I probably will, anyway.”

“We’ll work on it.” Tony gives him a little pat on the shoulder. “Why don’t you relax for about an hour and I’ll see what I can get together.”

“That sounds great, thanks.”

Tony opens his mouth to object to being thanked again, but shakes his head and huffs a little laugh instead. He leaves without another word, snapping the door closed behind him.

//

Tony is able to bribe Alex into staying late and cooking up something Italian. 

“I’m taking tomorrow morning off,” he says, setting two plates of chicken parmesan on the formal dining table. 

“I’ll let Stammer know,” he says, sweetly. 

Alex unties his apron as he stomps out of the room. 

“He didn’t seem very happy,” Mikhail says. 

Tony grabs a bottle of red wine off the rack on the wall. “He’s always like that,” he replies, twisting a corkscrew into the top and wiggling the cork out like a pro. “Do you like wine?”

Mikhail shrugs.

“You don’t have to drink it,” he says, pouring him a glass. 

Mikhail moves around the broccoli florets on his plate with his fork. “This is very nice of you.”

“It was nice of you to bail me out on the docks.” Tony nods at Mikhail’s plate. “Please, eat as much as you’d like.”

The guy digs in, cutting up his chicken parm into bite size pieces before popping them in his mouth. Tony probably shouldn’t pay so much attention to the way his jaw works as he chews. The way his tongue slides across his bottom lip to clean off the bit of sauce there. 

He takes a sip of his wine. “Is it okay if I ask you some questions?”

Mikhail has a mouthful so he just nods. 

“How’d you end up on the docks?”

“Um, well,” he starts, setting his silverware down. “My dad was a deadbeat. It didn’t work out well for me.”

“He kicked you out?”

“In a way.” 

“How long ago?”

Mikhail sips his wine. “Long enough.”

Tony stabs at a couple noodles, casually asks, “Mikhail’s not a very common name down here. Where’re you from?”

“Nizhnekamsk. By way of Canada.”

Tony leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “You hide your accent well.”

“I don’t hide it, this is just how I speak English.”

Tony likes the push back. “Well, it’s very good. Are you looking for work?” 

Mikhail nods. “I’ve been doing some day work but it’s mostly an uphill battle. Never enough for a hotel room or anything.”

“Have you ever done any wet work? Smuggling? Money laundering?”

Tony watches Mikhail’s adam’s apple bob when he swallows, his jaw tense and relax. 

“No.”

Tony believes him. “Do you know how to shoot a gun?”

“Not very well,” he says, mouth full. 

Tony has the best gut out of anyone in the whole mob. His instincts about people are usually right on the money, intuition almost flawless. Stammer calls it his superpower. Mikhail doesn’t ring any bells, raise any flags. He seems like an average guy who got stuck in a bad situation. He’s green, no bad habits to break. “We can fix that,” he says. “There’s plenty of guns to practice with here.” 

“Here?”

“We’re always looking for new soldiers.”

Mikhail takes a big gulp of wine. “Oh.”

“Are you not interested?” Tony sits back in his chair, eyebrows raised. 

“I could be,” he says, eyes trained on his plate. “Does it pay well?”

“Better than anything you could find on the docks. And it comes with an apartment.”

“You’d just...give me an apartment?”

“I mean, there’s a shortage right now because we just got a new building that isn’t ready, but in return for your services, yes. Everyone who makes the cut is guaranteed a roof over their head.” Tony pauses. “You can stay here with me in the meantime.”

“With you?” 

Tony feels himself flush like an idiot, opens his mouth to say anything to recover from his misstep, but Misha is already continuing. 

“Wait, the cut?”

Tony shrugs, tries to project calm, even though he feels anything but. “There’s training, tests, vetting. We only take the best and I think you could be one of the best.” He tries to school his face, make it welcoming. “I wouldn’t lie to you. There’s no reason to offer you all these things if I didn’t think you’d do good work.” 

“How can I believe you? We’ve only just met.”

Tony takes a sip of his wine, swallows slowly, and fixes Mikhail with an intense look. “What’s your gut telling you?”

Mikhail blinks a few times, nibbles on his bottom lip. “To believe you.”

“Can you do that?” he asks, gaze fixed on Mikhail across the table from him. “Can you trust me?”

His answer isn’t hesitant. “I can try.”

“Okay then.”

Mikhail stands,extending his hand over the table. “We’ll shake on it?”

Tony considers telling him that his word is his bond, that’s how they do things here. There’s no handshakes or signatures, just promises. But maybe Tony wants that hand in his own. He takes it. “Welcome to Tampa.” 

“Thanks.” Mikhail smiles at him, and no. That is not something Tony wants his mouth on right this minute.

“Let me take you back up to your room,” he offers instead.

The trip upstairs is short, not nearly long enough for Tony to come up with something to say that isn’t terrible small-talk. He turns to Mikhail when they arrive, gets hung up on his eyes for just a second. 

“Tony?” Mikhail prompts softly, his head cocked in confusion.

“Yeah, sorry, um. Get some rest, we have a lot to work on in the morning, alright?”

Mikhail’s lips part into a gentle smile when he steps through the doorway. It could be mocking, but somehow it comes off as kind. “Will I see you in the morning?”

“Yeah, of course,” Tony replies with a nod.

“Good, I look forward to it,” he says. His smile widens. “Good night.”

“‘Night,” Tony says.

He totally doesn’t flee back to his room after the door snaps closed.


	2. Chapter 2

Misha sits up, well rested for the first time in days. It’s early, so he slips back into the sweats he was given yesterday and gets to work stuffing the bed back into the couch. He folds the blanket neatly and stacks the pillows at one end so he has somewhere to wait. 

He doesn’t have anything else to do while he waits, so he worries. He thinks about how he told Tony to call him by his proper name. There’s no reason to worry about that kind of thing but something about Tony, about the easy way he took Misha in, makes him feel like he should have told him to call him Misha. Mikhail is just so...formal. Are mobs formal? Surely _Tony_ isn’t his given name. He’s probably an Anthony or Antonio. 

He watches the clock flip each minute until it’s almost seven. He thinks about Tony and how interesting he is. How the past twenty-four hours have possibly been the strangest of his life, so far. He wishes that he was less of a spazz about it all, that he wasn’t just sitting here doing nothing. Maybe he should find someone before he thinks himself into a panic over something dumb. 

Dumb _er_. 

Someone knocks on the door, rescuing him from his ridiculous trains of thought.

He jumps up, feeling clumsy when he trips over his feet on the way to the door. He pulls it open, relieved to see it’s Tony standing there. 

“Good morning.” Tony smiles, that cute little stupid dimple popping into view. He holds up a cup of coffee. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted this, but--”

“I do, thank you.” He takes a sip. “It’s perfect. How’d you know?”

“I, uh. I just made it the way I like it.” He grimaces. “On accident! Out of habit, I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s perfect. Thank you,” Misha repeats, hoping it will calm Tony down.

His shoulders relax, so it works a little anyway. “Glad you’re already dressed, Mikhail. We have a lot to do today. Ready?”

Misha nods. 

“C’mon then.” He waves Misha on over his shoulder as he turns. Misha follows him down to the basement.

He didn’t know places in Florida even _had_ basements. “Hey, how is this--”

Tony unlocks one of the doors at the foot of the stairs, holds it open for him. Misha is struck by Tony’s eyes and his voice gets caught in his throat. 

None of this is anything like he expected and he isn’t sure that he can do this. Whatever _this_ is. 

“You alright, Rookie?” Tony smirks, and dammit. There’s that dimple again. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He stands a little straighter, at full height, and steps into the room. He can at least pretend that he isn’t completely hopeless. “What are we going to do first?” 

The gym is filled with equipment and free weights, one wall lined in mirrors. There’s an open space near the back covered in mats. Tony heads right for it. 

“Let’s start with a little hand to hand and see how you do.” He takes a fighting stance and Misha tries to mimic it. “Okay, come on,” he says, inviting Misha to attack.

“I, um.”

“Oh, you’d rather be defense? Okay.” Tony shrugs as he advances. 

Misha defends the swings the best he can, and he thinks he actually does a pretty good job of deflecting most of them. The jabs that get through don’t pack much of a punch. 

“Not bad.” Tony nods. “Now throw one?”

“Are you sure?”

“Heh, yeah.”

Misha chews on his bottom lip for a second, then throws a punch. It must not be as unexpected as he hoped, because Tony doesn't even really have to move to deflect him. He tries a couple more times, only managing to almost glance a blow to Tony’s jaw once.

“I’m not that good, am I?” he asks with a frown.

“I’ve seen worse,” Tony answers. 

Misha thinks he’s being kind, scoffs. 

Tony waves away his dismissal. “No, I have. Maybe you punch a little bit like you’re wearing hockey skates, but you defend really well. Your instincts are good.”

“Yeah?” Misha brightens, can’t help it. 

Yeah, now, let’s try something a little harder.” Tony tackles him without warning and Misha’s back hits the mat with a dull thud.

They battle on the ground, both trying to get the upper hand. Misha almost thinks he has it for a second, but then Tony pins him. Misha shifts underneath, whines when Tony presses his wrists hard into the ground. 

“What are you gonna do now?” Tony asks. “You’ve got no choice but to get free or die, so what are you going to do?”

“I don’t...know,” Misha answers. He’s having a hard time concentrating when Tony is this close, showing this much strength, and…

He shouldn’t be thinking about this. Fuck.

“Well,” Tony starts, releasing Misha’s wrists and sitting up. “It’s something we can work on.” He’s still straddling Misha and he’d really like if that could stop now, thanks.

“Why don’t we try guns?” Tony suggests, mercifully standing up.

“Uh, I don’t have any training with ‘em, that might be a bad idea?”

“That’s okay, you can learn.” Tony chuckles. “Let’s start easy. We’ll go to the vault and clean some. Get you used to holding them.”

Tony offers his hand and Misha allows himself to be helped to his feet.“Okay.” 

Misha follows him out of the workout room and into the vault across the hall. He’d caught a glimpse from the stairs, but it didn’t prepare him for how massive it really is. Misha pauses by an old photo next to the door. “Hey, who is this?”

“That’s Phil.” There’s something new in Tony’s voice. Reverence, maybe. “He founded the Bolts. Built them from the ground up with his own two hands. He’s exactly who every leader should strive to be.”

“He sounds amazing,” Misha tries, not knowing what else to say.

“He really is.” Tony sighs. “C’mon, let’s do some cleaning. 

They get to work, Tony instructing him how to hold the small handguns they start with. He seems to be okay at this, rarely being corrected after the first few. It is sort of a cathartic activity, Misha can admit. They don’t say much, it’s just Tony showing him how to do it and switching out the gun when he’s done, until, “You know, Mikhail, I think you could do a lot of good things for us, here.” 

“You can call me Misha,” he blurts out. He feels his cheeks heat. “I mean, only if you want to! If it’s not weird.” 

“Why would it be weird?”

Misha pauses, tries to think of an explanation that makes sense. “It’s uh...it just means we’re close. It would sound like we’re friends or, uh, at least friendly, if other Russians heard you say it.” 

“That’s okay. We’re not... _not_ friends, right?”

Misha licks his lips. “I guess people don’t often clean guns with people who aren’t friends, eh?”

Tony finishes the gun he’s working on, snaps all the pieces back into place and loads it faster than Misha can follow. “That’s a good way to look at it. Finish up, we’ve got a couple other things to do today.”

//

Someone named Braydon shows up at his door the next day, according to his introduction. Misha almost asks where Tony is, but he figures that he’d know if he was supposed to. 

“Hi, nice to meet you. I’m...Misha,” he says, taking the hand that he’s being offered. “What am I going to learn today?”

“We’re heading to the range, gonna teach you how to shoot.”

“Oh, cool.” Misha grimaces. He can stop sounding like an asshole any minute now. Jesus. 

Braydon chuckles. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

The drive is awkwardly silent, it’s nothing like being with Tony. Misha doesn’t know what he should do or say, so he just looks out the window until they arrive.

“Alright, let’s go,” Braydon says as soon as he puts the car in park. Misha watches him fluidly slip from the car before he scrambles out after him. 

They walk in and Braydon nods at the dark-haired guy behind the counter. They don’t stop so there are no names or pleasantries exchanged. Misha almost runs into Braydon when he comes up an abrupt stop, but just catches himself.

“Have you ever held a gun before?” Braydon asks as he turns. And looms. Jesus, he’s big as fuck and just as intimidating.

“Once or twice, nothing serious.” Misha shrugs.

He mutters something to himself before he pulls out a 9mm. “Do you know what this is?”

“No, I’m an idiot,” Misha snaps at him. 

He cocks his head. “Okay, that’s fair, I was a shit.” He huffs a laugh. “Here, take it and fire a couple of shots at the target, then we’ll know what we have to work with.”

Misha takes it, shifts if from hand to hand a couple of times to get used to the weight, then steps up to the bar. He fires a test shot to get a feel for the kick, and then three more in quick succession. He flips the safely and lays it down. Braydon nods, hits the switch to pull the target in.

Misha wilts a bit when he sees all his shots have landed on the outermost ring. “Great. Another thing I suck at.”

“No, it isn’t that bad. All your shots hit the target, I’ve definitely seen worse first tries. As a matter of fact, Slater--” He cuts off, Misha looks over to see him scowling.

“Are you okay?” He asks hesitantly.

“I’m fine,” he answers shortly. “Let’s get to work.” 

Hours of shooting and reloading pass. Misha tries out little guns and big guns and one extremely tiny gun he could barely get his fingers around. 

“How’s that feel?” Braydon asks.

“Small.”

Braydon smiles and finally deems his shooting good enough. “We’re done for the day.” 

Misha doesn’t feel like he’s doing much better, but according to the latest target his shots are trending towards the bullseye, so what does he know?

“Come on,” Braydon says, _flipping his phone closed_. “There’s some guys waiting at the house to meet you.”

Misha tears his eyes away from an actual honest to fucking god flip phone. “To meet me? Who?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” Braydon grins and walks away. 

Misha doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close call.

// 

The surprise turns out to be just two guys. One who may have just rolled out of bed and another with lanky limbs and a face too young for the receding hairline he’s sporting. 

“This is Kuch and that is Vasy,” Braydon says, pointing to the bead head first. “There. I’m going to go bother Alex in the kitchen.”

“Careful, is in bad mood today,” Vasy says.

“Again?” Braydon throws his head back, slumps a bit. “Why?”

“Bray’s on mission,” Kuch replies.

Braydon sighs. “Well, I’ll try and distract him, then. Later, guys.”

“I heard you’re Russian,” Vasy says as Braydon walks away. 

Misha nods.

“Do you speak Russian?” Kuch asks him. In Russian.

“I wouldn’t be able to answer you if I didn’t, huh?” Misha asks, hand on his hip.

“I like you,” Kuch says with a grin. 

“Glad I passed your test.” Misha runs a hand through his hair.

“Not a test,” Vasy says. ”Just gathering information. Anyway, you should meet Bolt.”

“Who is Bolt?” 

He pulls a small smoky grey fluff of a kitten out of his jacket. “She’s our mascot,” Vasy says, petting her softly. “We found her hanging around the docks. Just like you.”

“She’s way cuter than me,” Misha says, reaching for her. “May I?” 

Vasy nods and passes her over. Bolt starts purring in Misha’s arms and it’s so soft and comforting he doesn’t want to give the kitten back.

“Are you bonding, then?” Misha looks up at the sound of Tony’s voice. There’s something in his eyes that Misha doesn’t recognize, but damned if he isn’t glad to see him.

“Tony, hey.” Misha’s smile widens. He passes Bolt back to Vasy without a care. “What’re you up to?”

“I was just looking for you, actually.”

“You were?” He’s pretty sure he’s beaming at this point.

“Yeah, we have a job. C’mon.” 

Misha waves goodbye to Kuch and Vasy and eagerly heads out to the driveway with Tony. 

//

“So, I’m supposed to go up and just, like, drop him out a window?” Misha frowns. He isn’t against the idea, really, it just seems rude to burst in without a word and throw a guy out his window. He says as much.

“Oh, no. Totally knock first.” Tony scoffs, “Jesus, we aren’t _barbarians_.”

“And this guy did what again?”

“He borrowed money from the Orphan Fund, which is a ‘pay back in no more than two weeks’ loan.” Tony’s face goes dark. “And it’s been two and a half months.”

“Is ‘Orphan Fund’ code for something?” 

“Yeah, it’s code for ‘we use this money to feed orphans’,” Tony answers. 

“Oh.” Now Misha wants to drop the asshole out an even higher window, to be honest. “Maybe I’ll only knock once.”

Tony laughs, claps him on the shoulder a couple of times. “That’s the spirit. It’s apartment ten, his name is Trevor.” Tony nods with his head. “I’ll be waiting under that window.”

“Okay.” Misha turns and heads for the glass door into the building. He slips in behind someone with a little smile, walks through the lobby and scales the steps to the second floor like he belongs there.

He’s good at pretending he belongs places.

He knocks on the door to number ten, picks a piece of lint on his sleeve while he waits. An obnoxious looking guy with a light brown pompadour pulls the door open after a moment. “Trevor?”

“Yeah, who’re you?”

“I’m Mikhail, we’re about to have a talk.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you, Mikhail,” he sneers, starting to push the door closed. Misha puts a hand on it so he flees into the apartment instead.

“What a fucking bitch ass,” Misha mutters to himself. As if this doesn’t make things easier. He slides in, absentmindedly locking the door behind him. “It’s just a little talk, Trevor,” he singsongs.

“I don’t even know you! I’m not saying a fucking word to you.” 

Ah, that makes him easier to trace. Misha walks towards the room he’s in. God, he made this so fucking easy. 

“You aren’t Tony! Where’s Tony?”

“Oh, Tony’s here,” Misha says. He pulls himself up to full height. “You’d like to talk to him instead?”

“Yeah. Yes!”

“Okay, that can be arranged.” Misha grabs him by the shirt and drags him to the window.

“W-what--”

He doesn’t get anything else out before Misha throws him straight out the window. The shattering glass sounds like a symphony.

Misha’s careful to avoid the jagged pieces still in the frame when he looks out the window and down. Trevor is laying in the middle of a big, fluffy hedge that seems to have mostly broken his fall.

Tony is so smart.

“You shoulda given me more time,” Trevor’s moaning. 

“We gave you more time than anyone else has ever gotten, all as a favor to Preble. You are out of time, asshole.” Tony pulls him from the bush, holds him close, hisses, “Pay me time and half by Monday and I don’t have Mikhail come back and break your wrists.”

“Fuck you, bringing Preble up,” Trevor spits. He breaks away for a second, pulls out a knife. Misha is about to jump out the window himself when Tony bats the knife away and punches him square in the nose. 

Trevor cups it immediately. “Ow, you broke it you fucker!” he yells through his hands.

“Make it double by Sunday,” Tony says calmly. 

“Holy shit,” Misha mutters to himself. He isn’t turned on right now. He _is not_. 

“We’re done here,” Tony calls up to him.

“Do I need to clean up, or?”

“No, the Bolts owns this building. It will be taken care of.” 

“Oh. Okay, I’ll be right down.”

Misha rushes down the stairs, spending the entire time reminding himself that he can’t not be attracted to this guy. Not now, not ever, but especially not over something like _that_. “You are not something that can happen right now,” he mutters down at his dick, which is trying so hard to give him away. 

Tony’s damn dimple isn’t helping matters either. “Hey, wanna hit up the bar with me?”

“With you?” Misha asks, his heartbeat speeding up.

“Well, I mean.” There’s some high coloring on Tony’s cheeks. What the fuck, how does that look so good? “Everyone just meets there at the end of the day. You can go, or I can take you back to the house first.”

“Oh.” That’s decidedly less exciting and actually quite takes care of his issue. Of course Tony doesn’t mean _with him_. “Sure, I’ll come.”

//

The bar looks like every other bar Misha has been to. Dark wood and dim lights. There’re tables and chairs leading up to the big bar back lit with glass liquor bottles.

“Just talk to some of the others, get to know them,” Tony says, pointing toward a corner booth.“I have to talk to Stammer, real quick, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Okay.” Most of the guys by the booth are nursing beers or amber colored cocktails. He heads to the bar to get one of his own. 

And then panics when the bartender asks for his order. “A Manhattan.” 

Misha’s never had a Manhattan in his life, but it sounds sophisticated. Like something a mobster would drink. He goes to pull out the wallet he doesn’t have and realizes he still doesn’t have any money. Shit. “Actually, uh…”

“Don’t worry about it,” the bartender says. “We serve the House for free.”

Misha thanks him and stirs his drink as he looks around the bar. He’s not sure he recognizes anyone besides Tony and the chef who cooked them Italian. He looks pretty upbeat. Bray must be back from his job. 

There’re a couple guys leaned up against the far wall, scrolling through their phones. One looks up, meeting Misha’s gaze. He jerks his head. 

Misha squints, confused. 

The guy’s lips harden into a thin line and he tilts his head again, purposeful. 

Misha turns away, taking a long sip of his drink. He looks around, trying to find the person the guy was flagging down. When he finishes his circle, the guy is standing right beside him. “What the _fuck_.” 

“Carey and Shea are pissed that they haven’t heard anything from you since the drop,” the guy hisses. “What took so long? Why didn’t you contact me?” 

Misha’s stomach curdles. He looks around for Tony, makes sure he’s not in ears reach before answering. “I was dropped on the docks with nothing but five fucking dollars,” he spits, keeping his voice low. “I didn’t know how to get in _here_ much less know that I was supposed to contact someone. I don’t even know your name.” 

He’s just about to tell him that he thinks that maybe he likes it here, that Carey and Shea can fuck off after what they did to him, when the guy pulls out a picture.

Of Misha’s mom.

“It’s Jo and guess what, asshole? If you don’t get me something to give them, it’s your mom who’s going to be in hot water.” Jo shoves the photo into Misha’s hand. Her address is on the back. 

Threatening his mom is dirty shit. She has nothing to do with what his dad did, what this shitty job is supposed to be for Misha. “But I thought was supposed to be my way--”

“The only thing you better be thinking about is how you can keep your mom and yourself alive, because Carey and Shea don’t fuck around.” 

Misha looks to Tony across the bar, laughing at the blonde who must be Stammer. “Okay, fine.”


	3. Chapter 3

Misha is careful after his run-in with Jo. He sticks close to Tony when he can and keeps building up his skills. He makes a point to never be in a room alone with someone. Especially not Jo. 

To his relief, it’s not long before another job comes in. Stammer’s taking team to Colorado to secure funding to build another school and Misha’s on the list to go along. He doesn’t know if it’s to get experience, or if Tony’s reported back that he’s doing well, but he gets to go on the trip. He gets to leave Jo behind and not have to worry about...all that. 

The small group is milling around the tarmac, waiting for the plane to be ready. Misha walks up to Tony, suddenly feeling shy. “Um, hi.”

“Hi,” Tony replies, squinting up at him. He should really be wearing sunglasses, but it’s sort of endearing. “What’s up?”

“I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but did I do okay the other day? With the guy and the window?” He feels like a dumbass when he bites at his bottom lip, but Tony smiles at him and suddenly that’s forgotten in favor of keeping the butterflies in his stomach at bay.

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“And it’s no bother.”

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Misha says faintly. He doesn’t know why he’s seeking out Tony’s approval. Why he picked this moment to do it. 

Well, maybe he does.

“I am.” Tony claps him on the shoulder. “C’mon, plane’s ready.”

//

Misha picks a blank space of wall to lean against while Tony, who drew the short stick, checks them into their downtown hotel. It might be the nicest place he’s ever stayed, if the grand chandelier in the lobby is any indication. His phone vibrates, a text from a number he’s quickly come to associate with bad news popping up on the screen. It’s just an ear emoji. _Keep your ears open_. 

“Fuck off,” he grumbles, deleting the message just as Tony approaches their little group. 

“Okay, I got four rooms.” He hands a key to Stammer, Ondrej, and Yanni in turn.

“Four?” Stammer asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes. Four.”

“But what about…” he trails off, indicating vaguely at Misha.

Now he wonders what he could have done when he was just standing here minding his own business.

“Like I said, don’t worry about it.” Tony waves the question away, reaches for his suitcase. “C’mon rookie, you’re with me.”

Misha follows after Tony, but he doesn’t miss the mumbling between the guys they leave behind. 

//

Dinner that night is a fancy event, one Misha had to cobble together mismatched pieces of a suit for. The guys were all about his size but, looking in the mirror, everything's turned out a bit ill-fitting. On the bright side, there must be something in this Denver air, because his hair is more manageable than usual.

“How do I look?” he asks, coming out of the bathroom and holding his arms up. He thinks the whole look is passable enough.

“I’ve seen better,” Tony replies. 

“Oh.” Misha drops his hands. He frowns down at himself, feels his cheeks heat in embarrassment.

“No! I mean.” Tony runs a hand through his hair, mutters at himself. “I just meant we need to get you one that fits better.” He smiles. “We can take care of it when we get back.”

“Okay,” Misha says quietly. He still feels like an asshole. Or a loser. A loser asshole. “Should I not go, then?”

“Of course you’re going,” Tony says quickly. He reaches for Misha’s tie, snugs it up against his throat. “I’m, uh, I’m just going to get ready real quick.” He sprints into the bathroom, door snapping shut behind him.

Misha sinks onto the bed that’s his, brushes his fingers across the Windsor knot he had to google to tie properly. The worry from that first day comes rushing back, the _what ifs_. He picks at his nails, an old nervous habit, and frets over everything under the sun.

He’s pulled from his head when Tony emerges fully dressed. Misha almost chokes on his own spit. His suit fits him perfectly, clinging to his shoulders and chest and the dip of his waist. He doesn’t ask Misha how he looks, which is good, because Misha isn’t sure that he would be able to mutter out an appropriate reply. 

Actually, there might be too much gel in his hair, but other than _that_ \-- 

“Let’s go so we aren’t late, because that would be rude,” Tony says, buttoning his cuff. “And we don’t want to be rude.”

“Uh, yeah, right.” Misha scrambles to his feet, smoothing the wrinkles from his pants and grabbing his coat. 

//

The restaurant the Denver mob takes them to is the fanciest place Misha’s ever been. It’s all black tablecloths and dim lighting. There’s a long table in the back set up for them, origami napkins set on each plate. 

Tony sits to the right of Stammer and Misha takes the next seat down from him. 

Gabriel ‘Call Me Gabe’ Landeskog is really too pretty for this line of work. Misha can’t believe that he runs the mob here. He looks more like a prince than a Kingpin. His number two, who is introduced as EJ, is a little goofy looking. Like he’d rather be playing golf than helping to run a mob. 

“You didn’t say you were bringing a rat to dinner,” Stammer says casually, as he drapes his napkin in his lap. 

The whole table groans. 

“Well he does have to eat,” Yanni adds. “Can’t starve the little guy.”

“Who’s calling who _little_?” Tyson pipes in. 

“I said what I said!”

“It’s been six years,” Gabe says, stern. “Can we have a civil dinner, for once?”

Stammer shrugs. “It’s such a nice restaurant, I just wasn’t expecting vermin to be allowed at the table, that’s all.”

Tyson pushes back in his chair but Gabe grabs his shoulder to keep him seated. Tony clears his throat. 

“Okay fine,” Stammer says. “We’ll be civil.”

Everyone drops it. There’s something about the exchange that makes Misha pause, but then the subject changes and he loses the moment.

  
  


After far too much steak and just the right amount of wine, Gabe leads them through the bustling kitchen and into a back room. 

“Could I tempt anyone in a game?” he asks, indicating the deck of cards in the middle of the table. 

“I do love to take people’s money,” Yanni says, settling into one of the seats and pulling out a hundred dollar bill. 

Misha realizes there aren’t enough seats for all of them and tries to step back, let everyone else fight for a chair. Ondrej takes the last seat but Tyson objects. 

“No, no,” he says. “The new guy has to play.” 

Misha doesn’t have much money, even with the pay from the window job, but he has just enough for this. Still, he debates turning them down, tries to think of a lighthearted way to beg off, to not get into the _why_ of it. 

“I’ll even buy you in,” Tyson says, tossing another hundred on the table. 

Misha sets his jaw. He doesn’t need his money even if the Habs left him with nothing. “I have my own money.” His slaps his bill down and bites his tongue. It’s probably not a good look to get in a brawl with a business partner. “And I’ll be happy to take yours, fair and square.”

Misha runs the table, knocking Tyson out on his last bluff.  
He shakes Misha’s hand before shoving his pile of chips in front of him. They're all laughing and congratulating him, Bolts and Avs alike. Misha takes the pot of cash and pockets it quickly. He needs to get out of here. 

But he’s stuck in a room with frivolous people who just lost a substantial amount of money to him and consider it all part of a typical Friday night. No one is bothered by their pockets getting lighter, like hundreds of dollars is nothing. He excuses himself and heads for the bathroom.

To his surprise, someone comes after him. He startles when a hand falls onto his wrist, halting his forward motion just outside the back room. He looks up into Tony’s worried eyes. 

"Hey, what's wrong?"

Misha tries to deny it. “I’m fine. Everything's fine.”

"I know you haven't known me for very long but...but I want you to know you can trust me. I've got everyone else's secrets already but I have room for yours too. If you'll tell me."

Misha's hands clench, his whole body seems to rebel against the idea of telling Tony anything.

Tony steps back, he puts space between them, softens his shoulders. "I just want to make sure you're okay."

Misha glances over Tony's shoulder where the door is propped open, back toward the table where everyone's still sitting and drinking. It kind of smells like someone lit a cigar. 

Tony waits. 

"I, uh..." Misha starts, gaze dropping to his shoes. "I told you about my dad, sort of, right? Well, there’s a specific thi--” Misha blinks, tries to hold back tears because he _can’t_ look weak here. He takes a deep breath and continues, "It has a lot to do with that game we just played. It's not...you didn't know, of course you didn't but I hate it. I _hate_ it and I can't just sit around and be congratulated for it." 

Tony's patient. He's so, so patient. "Why do you hate it?"

Misha looks up, tries hard to keep his face even and calm. "I'm pretty good at it, yeah? My papa....he's not."

Tony softens. Misha thinks that maybe he’s failed. He doesn’t want Tony’s pity, but--

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't know but I know now. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again." He closes the space between them just a little, lets the door swing shut. He’s close enough to reach out for Misha's shoulder, trail his fingers along the slope of it.

Misha doesn't shiver but it's close. "Thank you."

//

It’s late when they get back to the hotel and disperse to their rooms. Tony lets them in without a word and the silence that settles between them isn’t really bad, per se, but Misha doesn’t like it. Misha sits on his bed, fidgeting with a loose button on his cuff while Tony paces around the room.

“What, uh.” 

Tony stops and looks at him. 

It feels big and intense and catches him off guard. He clears his throat. “What was the business with the rat talk?”

“Oh. Tyson was originally a Bolt, under his dad.” Tony gives him a wry little grin. “Len was not Phil’s best decision. Anyway, Len sent Tyson out here to Colorado and he flipped for a pretty face. It happens that way sometimes.” He shrugs and goes back to pacing, checking the locks on the hotel door again.

“Why doesn’t it bother you that he did that?” Misha frowns. “It sure seems like it still bothers the others.”

“It was years ago and I have better things to do than hold onto grudges.” Tony does an about-face and smiles at him. It’s a cute little crooked thing. “You’ll learn that pretty quick in this line of work.”

“I’m sure.” Misha takes a deep breath, pats his thighs a couple of times. “I’m going to, um, get ready for bed.”

Misha gathers up his personal effects and does _not_ flee into the bathroom. He hurries through the motions of pulling off his ugly suit, hanging it up before he relieves himself and slips into a pair of sweats. He scrubs his face and brushes his teeth as quickly as he can, not wanting to leave Tony waiting for the bathroom.

“It’s all yours,” Misha pops out, his suit thrown over his arm, a bag of toiletries in his other hand. The hanger he had his suit on falls to the floor and he bends down awkwardly to collect it.

When he rights himself Tony is suddenly close, too close.

“Hey.” They’re almost breathing the same air. Misha feels his heartbeat speed up when Tony’s hand approaches his face. “You have a bit of toothpaste,” he says quietly, dragging a slow thumb across his bottom lip.

Misha does shiver this time. “I--”

“Sorry, I don’t know what I was…” Tony shakes his head and slips around him. 

The door slams up against Misha’s back. 

He drops everything into his open suitcase and climbs into bed. It feels like he lays there for hours before Tony appears, a cloud of steam dissipating around him.

“Feel better?” Misha asks as Tony checks the door locks for the tenth time since they got back.

“Yeah, I think I’m going to go to bed now,” Tony replies. 

“Okay, ‘night.” 

Tony slides under his covers and snaps off the light. And then Misha lays there, watching Tony toss and turn in the bed across from him for entirely too long. It’s at least two hours before he finally settles. 

Misha watches him breathe for a couple of minutes before rolling over and pulling the covers up to his chin. He doesn’t know why, but he feels completely safe with Tony sleeping between him and the door.

His last thoughts are of how Tony’s hair looks when he comes out of the shower, how dark the wet curls look against the hotel pillows.

//

Misha’s bag crinkles when he reaches into it for his toothpaste in the morning and Tony startles awake. He’s already upright, a hand under his pillow before his eyes focus on Misha. 

“I’m sorry.” Misha holds his hands up in surrender. “I was trying to be qui--I didn’t want to wake you.”

“No, it's fine I'm just. I don’t sleep well and I wake easily.” Tony frowns. “Well, usually. I actually slept..decently..last night." He looks confused by the notion.

“Why don't you sleep well?” Misha asks quietly. 

“It’s just part of the life. Grew up in it so I’m used to it. You’ll get used to it too.” 

Misha’s heart kind of hurts for Tony, he can’t imagine growing up in this life, being _groomed_ for something like this. He opens his mouth to say something comforting, but Tony is already getting out of bed.

“C’mon, we have a meeting to get to.”

//

The meeting isn’t held at an abandoned warehouse or down by the docks. It’s on the 29th floor of an office building right in the heart of the city. 

“How do they get away with this?” Misha whispers to Yanni on their way to the elevator. 

“Mobs run the world, rookie. We can do whatever we want.”

Misha doesn’t actually find out what happens in the meeting itself, because Stammer puts him on guard duty outside the door with Pally and a couple of Avs that he doesn’t learn the name of. He can hear muffled voices through the wall but nothing concrete. 

It seems like it goes well enough, though, since they all come out of the room not twenty minutes later shaking hands cheerfully. Tony’s carrying an extremely conspicuous black duffel bag.

“Coop has the plane ready,” Stammer says. “Let’s hit the road.” 

Mob shit is wild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We wrote this way before the trade. Awkward, sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony’s halfway to Misha’s locker before he remembers he moved to the apartment that came open after they got back from Colorado. He knocks on the door to locker number 31 anyway, just in case Misha’s hanging around. 

One can hope. 

He sighs when Misha doesn’t answer, slinging the suit bag over his shoulders and heading for the stairs. Take two. 

Tony rings the doorbell three times (for good measure) and holds up the suit bag the instant Misha opens the door to his apartment. “Got you this, just like I promised.”

“A suit?” Misha raises his eyebrows. “How did you know my size?”

Tony smiles. “I have an eye for detail, it’s kinda my thing.” 

“Oh. Well. Thank you.” Misha takes the suit from him. 

“Get changed, there’s a job and I want you there as my second."

“Really?” He looks pleased and Tony would very much like to put that look on his face every chance he gets.

“Yes, really.” Tony makes shooing motions. “Now go change so we aren’t late.” Misha beams at him before bolting for the bedroom.

Tony takes in the apartment while Misha changes. It’s a bit bare for his taste and the paint on the walls has seen better days. He settles onto the couch and gets poked by one of the buttons tufted into the cushion. There’s no TV but there is a small radio playing music in the kitchen. 

He takes out his phone and makes a note to see about hiring a painter. 

“I think your eye may have measured a bit too close,” Misha says, peeking his head around the corner. 

Tony waves him closer. “Don’t be silly.”

Misha steps fully into view and honestly? Tony’s glad he’s sitting down. The fit of the suit is perfect, every stitch and seam exactly where it should be. Misha’s shoulders look broad, filling out the jacket he’s left open. “Button the jacket.” 

He doesn’t mean for it to be a command but Misha complies without question. 

It slims his waist and lets Tony’s unabashedly see how the jacket flares out over his ass when he turns to the side to look in the dirty mirror hanging in the hall. “You don’t have any cufflinks.” 

Misha pinches the place where they would go. “No, I...borrowed some from Vasy for the trip, but I already gave them back.”

Tony stands and fishes a silver pair out of his pocket. “I figured you may need some. So I brought you an extra pair I had.” 

Misha holds out his hand for them but Tony has a different idea. 

“Let me do it.” He slips the first into place easily, wiping his thumb over the face of it so the lettering etched in shows. “Most of my cufflinks have my initials on them. I hope you don’t mind.” 

Misha swallows and Tony watches his throat work. Watches the little kiss of pink bloom on his cheeks. “No that’s, it’s fine.” 

“Good.” He takes Misha’s other wrist in his hand, guiding the cufflink through the hole. “They look good on you.”

He leaves his wrist in Tony’s hands, lets him straighten his cuff, drag fingertips down his palm. 

“I should, uh.” Misha snaps his hand back, shoves it in his pocket. “I should put shoes on.” 

Tony gives him space. “Yeah, we don’t want to be late.”

//

“How long are we going to have to wait to get in?” Misha asks, his eyes running down the line of people spilling out of the club. It’s wrapped all the way around the corner.

Tony huffs a little laugh. “C’mon.”

“Welcome back, sirs.” The bouncer inclines his head and pulls back the rope. The crowd groans, but Tony pays them no mind.

“He included me in that,” Misha whispers excitedly. 

Tony smiles up at him.

He’s been catching himself doing that a lot. Smiling at Misha. He’s just...Tony can’t quite put his finger on it yet, but he likes when Misha is happy. 

Misha looks taken in by the heavy music and pulsing lights as they navigate through the mass of people inside. A line of girls slips between them and Misha grabs Tony’s arm to stay close. He leads them to the back of the club, Misha’s hand eventually slipping into his own. 

Mika is in his usual corner booth.

Tony drops Misha’s hand before sliding into the empty seat. “Mika.”

“Anthony.”

Tony purses his lips. “How’s Christopher?” 

Misha settles next to him. He’s probably too close, but Tony likes the press of his thigh so he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want to make a scene. 

“Feeling better, thanks. Can’t wait to get back in the field.”

“What, uh--” Misha falls silent when Tony shakes his head. 

“Glad to hear it,” he cuts in. He tries to be casual when he reaches for Misha’s hand where it’s sitting palm up on his thigh like an invitation. Visions of Misha bloodied and broken, in pain, the way they found Chris, almost steals his breath. 

A waitress approaches the table and Tony gladly orders a scotch and water. He nods at Misha who orders the same. 

She turns and prances away as the song changes and Mika gets distracted by the new beat. Without his eyes on them, Misha leans closer, drags his thumb across Tony’s knuckles. “Are you okay?”

Tony clears his throat. “‘M fine.”

“This is a good song!” Mika shouts across the table. “I know one of the guys who worked on it.”

Tony smiles, agrees. He squeezes Misha’s hand before letting go. There’s still business to attend to. “Kuch asked me to inquire about Vladdy. How is he’s doing? Picking up everything well, I assume?” he asks conversationally.

“Vladdy says Kuch should call him then. If he’s so worried,” Mika answers with a grin. He places a small case onto the table, pushes it across. “I think you’ll find everything in order.”

Tony flips it open, hardly spares it a glance. They’re friendly enough that this is merely a formality. “Looks perfect, as always. I’ll pass Vladdy’s message on.”

“He’ll be glad to hear he’s been asked about. I hope they talk soon.” Mika stands. 

“I hope so too,” Tony replies as the waitress returns with their drinks. 

“Enjoy.” Mika gives them a little nod and slips into the crowd. 

Tony’s phone buzzes. _Your new partner’s cute._ He huffs, quickly deleting Mika’s text, hoping Misha wasn’t looking. 

But Misha’s far too busy taking in his surroundings, eyes wide and mouth dropped open just a little. 

Tony leans in close. “Do you like this kind of thing?”

He nods, a little bashful.

“I have another meeting upstairs, but you don’t have to be there. Why don’t you go have some fun?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll come find you when we’re finished.”

Misha grins at him, then easily disappears into the crowd with his drink. Tony watches him go before he pockets the case and heads upstairs. 

The Panthers kingpin is waiting in the one of the alcoves. 

“Hi, I’m Tony.” He offers a hand that isn’t accepted. 

“You’re the one they sent for this?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, Victor is tied up at the moment, sorry.” Tony flags for a waitress, orders a second scotch and water just to have something in his hands. “But I have full jurisdiction to speak for the mob.”

He studies Tony for a few heartbeats while Tony sits there and is studied. “Alright,” he says, finally extending a hand. “Call me Lu.”

“What can I help you with, Lu?” Tony asks as the waitress returns and places his drink on a napkin. 

“I wanted to apologize. For Hoffman, I mean. Frankie is young and he panicked when Hoffman pulled his shit, but Hoffman...well, he won’t be an issue anymore.”

“That’s good to hear. We’ve had a very strict policy about what can be smuggled through our docks for years. I’m disappointed he wasn’t alerted to those policies.” Tony sits back, sips his drink. 

“Like I said. He won’t be an issue. The rest of my guys understand the consequences.”

Tony smirks. “You know, Frankie’s got a bit of a mouth on him.”

“God, don’t I know it.” Lu chuckles as his phone rings. He pulls it out and frowns. “I’m sorry, I have to take this. Are we done here?”

“Yeah, we’ll wait on something in writing from you at a later date,” Tony replies, standing and picking up his glass. 

“Yes, of course,” Lu replies hurriedly before he picks up his call and disappears into a private room.

Tony walks over to the balcony, leans against it to look down over the club in an effort to search out Misha.

His eyes narrow when he spots Misha pressed against a stranger on the dance floor. His movements are smooth, fluid, perfectly on beat, and Tony isn’t at all jealous of someone that he’s never met. 

He is _not_. It’s Misha’s business if he wants to be pressed up against that blonde asshole, and--

Aww, shit. He’s jealous. 

It’s time to go. 

Tony abandons his drink and slips through the crowd, easily winds through the people, towards the dance floor and Misha. He presses right up against his back without thinking, leans over his shoulder and whispers, “Let’s go.” 

Misha turns immediately and oh, that’s close. Tony watches his dark eyes go even darker. Gets caught in the way his lips press together when he swallows, tongue darting out to lick the corner of his mouth. 

Tony _wants_ . He wants Misha completely. He shouldn’t. He _should not_. But what if right here in the middle of this crowded dancefloor he said fuck it and took what he wants, just this once? What if he doesn’t care who might see? 

He’s a grown man and _can_ do whatever he wants.

And the thing he wants right now is Misha. 

Someone must bump into Misha from behind because suddenly they’re pressed together, a little off balance, and Tony has to really look up to keep Misha’a gaze. For just a moment they share breath, Misha steadying himself with a hand on Tony’s hip. It would take just an inch. Maybe less. 

But here in public, in a club owned by a patron who would use it against him in an instant, that inch is too much. 

Fuck. They need to leave. 

He grabs Misha’s wrist and pulls him toward the door before he gives these people any ammunition.


	5. Chapter 5

Tony doesn’t drop Misha’s wrist until they get back to the car and even then, he lingers on the passenger side. His eyes tilt up over Misha’s head before landing on his lips, his neck, his shoulders. Misha is still tingly where they were pressed so close together at the club. The scent of Tony lingers in his nose, spicy and strong. There’s so much gel in his hair and Misha wants to drag his fingers through the strands, wants to break his curls free. Tony is always so confident and strong, his cheekbones are--

Tony breaks his train of thought, finally circling to the other side of the car and getting in. Misha follows suit and barely has his seatbelt buckled before Tony is peeling out of the parking lot. They ride in near-silence, the crackling radio the only noise filling the car. 

Unexpectedly, Tony pulls into a convenience store a few blocks from the house. He shuts off the car and looks over at Misha. “I’ll be right back, I just need...stuff.”

“Um, okay,” Misha stutters back. 

Tony’s dimple pops into view when he smiles and it’s the last thing that Misha needs right now. 

He can’t get attached to this guy. The Habs are ruthless. He could already be putting Tony in danger if they know. If Jo’s told them. Misha doesn’t know what he’d do if anything happened to Tony.

Shit. 

He drags his hands over his face and up through his hair. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’s already stupidly worried about something happening to Tony and it’s probably too late to protect him from those assholes.

Maybe he can ask not to work with Tony anymore. He doesn’t know how to request that or how much of an insult it would be, but maybe he can just go back to cleaning toilets and mopping floors. He was good at that in Montreal. 

Tony returns with a small bag that he drops in the center console. 

“What’s that?” Misha asks.

“Oh, you know. Stuff.” Tony seems to be fighting a smile when he starts the car. 

Misha makes himself tear his eyes away, resting his head on the tinted window to mindlessly stare at the scenery. He startles, knocking his head against the glass, when Tony’s hand rests on his own across the console. Tony is smiling now, his eyes fixed on the road. Misha’s mind settles with the weight of Tony’s hand. 

“Come with me.” Tony ushers him towards the house the second he’s out of the car. 

“I can just, I mean, my apartment isn’t far. I can walk.” 

“It’s late,” Tony insists. 

Misha, ignoring the warning siren his brain is sounding, follows him in. They go straight up the stairs and through the first door they come to. Misha’s eyes don’t have time to adjust to the darkness inside before Tony pulls him through another door.

“Where are we?” he asks as Tony locks the door behind them.

“This is my room,” Tony replies, throwing the small bag towards his end table before he turns to Misha. “I figured it’d be more private?” he says with a little smirk.

“Oh.” Misha’s stomach clenches. He shouldn’t be alone with Tony, he should get away from him, put as much distance as possible between them. “Why did you bring me here?” Misha asks. 

Tony cocks his head, confused. 

He clarifies, “When you saw me at the docks that day, why didn’t you just leave me behind?”

“I trust my gut.” Tony steps closer, looks up into Misha’s face. “It’s pretty reliable.” 

It makes Misha feel guilty, like shit even. He wants to tell Tony that his gut is wrong this time, that he shouldn’t trust him.

“Tony, I--” Misha stops, shudders when Tony steps even closer. 

“Yeah?”

Tony is so close, still looking at him. It’s different than the club. Misha feels like he’s allowed to look now, like Tony is giving him permission.

His eyes are captivating, so intensely dark and beautiful that Misha keeps getting caught in them. He offers Misha the smallest shy smile and his dimple pops back into sight. It’s so distracting that he can’t even keep his thoughts straight. So distracting he can’t find a reason to walk away. 

Misha reaches out with his thumb. If this is the only chance he gets to touch Tony like this he isn’t going to waste it. He barely ghosts his finger over the dimple before Tony surges up into him. 

Tony kisses him like he’s starving, like Misha is the first thing he’s had a taste of in years. Tony shoves him right up against the rough brick wall that surrounds the fireplace, runs his fingers into Misha’s hair and deepens the kiss. 

Misha presses back after a couple seconds, needing to taste more of Tony. He runs his tongue along Tony’s bottom lip while he traces the lines of Tony’s shoulders, biting down as he turns them. He swallows down the little noise that escapes Tony when he hits the wall, presses in closer. He slides a leg between his thighs as he grabs Tony’s wrists and pins them to the wall, squeezing gently. 

Tony flexes at the motion, surges forward. Misha breaks the kiss, leans back. “Should I stop, is this…?”

“No, no. It’s fine. Let’s.” Tony slips around him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him across the room. “Can we?” He makes purposeful eye contact when his hands fall to Misha’s belt.

“Yes.” Misha nods into another kiss and then they’re stripping. It isn’t as sexy as it could be, because there’s so many buttons. Buttons everywhere, and Misha has never hated a suit so much in his life.

Tony grabs the bag from the convenience store and shoves it at Misha when they’re finally down to their boxers. “Here, we’ll need this,” he says before bouncing up onto the bed and settling himself down into the pillows. 

Misha is halted for a minute by how long Tony’s body looks stretched out in front of him. At all of those muscles laid out on display for him.

“You gonna make me wait all night, or?” Tony’s smirk is back and it’s going to be the death of him.

“Right. Sorry.” Misha dumps the items from the bag: a three-pack of condoms and a bottle of lube. His head swims as he fumbles with the little cardboard box. He can’t believe this is happening, that this desire he has for Tony is mutual. He also can’t believe Tony is making him deal with fresh packaging when he’s spread out on the bed like the best thing Misha’s ever seen. He rips the box with his teeth. Fuck. He tosses it aside without another thought and climbs up onto the bed, straddling Tony’s hips.

“God, I’ve wanted you so much, for so long,” Misha mutters, leaning in. He kisses Tony deeply, quickly, until they’re both out of breath from it.

“How much?” Tony asks, arching up into him. Misha bites his bottom lip, but a moan slips through. “And how long?”

“Too long to be good for me,” Misha admits, reaching for the lube.

“Since the trip to Colorado?” Tony asks.

“No, since I saw you on the docks,” Mish replies. “Bear down.”

“Wait, wha--?” Tony cuts off with a groan.

“Shhh, just enjoy it,” Misha whispers. He goes back to kissing Tony while he works him open. He could probably slow down and use a little more lube, but he needs Tony ready like yesterday.

He just can’t wait any longer.

“‘M ready, fuck, please just…” 

Misha doesn’t need anymore urging, he grabs the condom and tears it open, almost drops it in his haste to get it on. “How do you want it?”

“Right here, like this.” Tony reaches for him, pulls him back in. “There, that’s better.”

Misha lines up and pushes in.

Time seems to slow when he looks down at Tony. He gets caught up in the lines of Tony’s face, how his cheekbones stand out so plainly, the way his eyelashes fan out when his eyes slip closed.

He’s beautiful and Misha doesn’t deserve it for one second.

“Hey,” Tony’s fingers dig into his hips. “You gonna fuck me, or?”

Misha huffs a little laugh, catching Tony’s lips once more, finally moving. He sets a quick pace, wants Tony to know how much Misha wants him, needs him to _feel_ it. 

A hand drifts to Tony’s dick and Tony’s fingers grip even tighter on Misha’s hips. He hopes there’s marks there tomorrow, a visible reminder that they really did this. He tips back in, his lips hovering over Tony’s when he asks, “Are you gonna come for me?”

Tony tenses and comes and it’s...Misha can’t believe that he gets to have this. Gets to have this man who is sharp in so many ways but soft under him. That he gets to taste him, to feel Tony go pliant under him. 

He doesn’t want to let this go. He doesn’t think that he can.

“C’mon, finish,” Tony whines, curls up to wrap a hand around Misha’s neck and pull him close. It prompts Misha back into action and he sighs into the kiss Tony pulls him into, chasing his completion.

It almost catches him off guard when he comes a couple moments later.

“Holy shit, so good,” Misha mutters, tipping his sweaty forehead into Tony’s. 

“Mmm, yeah,” Tony sighs quietly. “Let’s go clean up, though.”

“But I don’t wanna move yet,” Misha whines. And he doesn’t. He’d be completely happy to just lay here, bracketing Tony in all night. 

“We can shower together,” Tony offers. 

“You drive a hard bargain.” Misha nuzzles at Tony’s jawline. 

“You have no idea,” Tony replies. 

Misha pulls back and his soft smile has returned. Ugh. This guy is going to be the death of him. “Okay, let’s go,” Misha says, gently pulling free and scrambling from the bed.

They climb back into bed, still a little damp from the shower, and Misha can’t help but wrap his arms around Tony and pull him close. Maybe he’s being too clingy, is holding Tony too closely, but he doesn’t care. It feels right.

“Hey,” Misha whispers into Tony’s hairline. 

“Hey,” Tony echoes. It’s quiet; he’s close to sleep. 

“Who protects you?”

“Hmm?”

“Everyone else has a partner, but who takes care of you?”

“Take care of myself,” Tony mutters. 

“You should let me take care of you,” Misha says. He drags his nose downward, across a cheekbone and along his jawline. “You need someone to take care of you.”

“M’kay,” Tony sighs before he relaxes into him and falls asleep. 

Misha brushes Tony’s hair back. He wants to stay here. He _needs_ to stay here. 

He’s got to find a way to tell Tony what’s going on, Tony will help him. They can solve it together. Tony’s high enough in the family to help him. 

At least, Misha’s pretty sure he is. 

**//**

Misha watches the sun make shadows on Tony’s ceiling, flat on his back and unable to fall into any kind of restful sleep. Tony’s breathing heavily beside him, mouth hanging open a little too far to be polite. 

Misha feels a little sick to his stomach, the secret he’s keeping from Tony, from _everyone,_ is too much. 

Tony stirs and Misha quickly shuts his eyes, tries to relax. Fake it like he’s been faking it this whole time. 

“Mm, morning,” Tony says, snuggling up to Misha’s side and tucking his nose in Misha’s shoulder. “I know you’re awake, don’t pretend.”

Misha cracks open one eye and is caught off guard by Tony’s smile, close-lipped but still bright. 

“We should have pancakes,” Tony says. “What time is it? I’ll have the kitchen make anything you want.”

“The kitchen?” 

Tony leans over Misha to read the clock on the bedside table. “Alex is usually in early, I’ll bribe him into cooking for us.”

“Alex cooks on demand?” 

Tony brushes a kiss to Misha’s cheek. “Not for everyone.” 

Alex isn’t alone in the kitchen but he clearly isn’t expecting anymore guests if the knife stuck in the door directly to the right of Misha’s head is any indication. Misha’s pretty sure it would have gone right between his eyes if Tony hadn’t casually shoved him out of the way. 

Jesus. 

“I swear to god, Rocco. I’m going to murder you one day,” Alex says, a second knife already gripped in his hand. 

Tony just shrugs and steps further into the kitchen. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.” He dips his head around Alex’s shoulders. “You’re up early, Pointy.”

“No one calls me Pointy,” Bray says.

“I think it could stick. Especially if you keep hanging around this guy.” He indicates Alex. “Everyone knows he likes pointy things.”

“I’m not a...I’m just going to go,” Bray says, heading for the door. “I’ll see you at the meeting.” 

“What meeting?” Misha asks. 

Tony’s grabbed an apple from the counter, taken a bite. “Tonight. You should come.” 

“He should?” Alex asks, eyebrows suddenly hovering around his hairline. 

“Yes,” Tony agrees. “It’s pretty boring, just the kingpin standing up on a podium talking about business. No big deal.” 

Alex kind of looks like he thinks it’s a very big deal and Misha’s about to open his mouth to object when Tony cuts him off. “It’s settled. Is there any Bisquick in this place? I’m craving pancakes.”

“ _Bisqui--_ no. There isn’t. We have flour and milk and eggs.” Alex huffs. 

“I don’t know how to make pancakes like that.” Tony definitely flutters his lashes Alex’s way. “I’d make a mess of your kitchen.”

Alex caves, reaching for a big mixing bowl in the cabinet above the sink. “This is only because I almost threw a knife into your eye.” 

“Misha’s eye,” Tony says. “You weren’t even close to me.” 

Misha doesn’t appreciate this conversation at all. “Could we not talk about a knife in my eye?”

“What, you’re not squeamish, are you?” Alex asks, rustling for measuring cups in a drawer. 

“Fuck off,” Misha snips. 

Tony smiles and takes another bite of his apple. 

//

Tony leaves Misha to his own devices for the afternoon, citing a boring business meeting across town and planting a quick kiss to Misha’s cheek. He retreats to Tony’s room and strips the sheets, balls them up into a manageable pile. He realizes halfway down the hall that he has no idea where the laundry room is. 

If there even _is_ a laundry room in the house. 

He probably should have just gone back to his shitty little apartment and twiddled his thumbs until Tony was finished. He looks down at the sheets in his arms, feeling like a grand idiot. 

“Who’d you fuck in your locker?” 

Misha looks around his pile to find Kuch staring down at his phone. 

“What?”

He nods at the sheets. 

“Is, uh, is that not...allowed?” Misha’s voice pitches too high at the end. He feels guilty, is sure he’s projecting it all over his face. 

Kuch laughs. “Don’t look so scared. I’ll show you where they go.”

He follows Kuch to the basement and starts a load. “Thanks.”

“Don’t leave them in there,” Kuch says, still distracted by his phone. “Danick will kill you.”

Misha sets an alarm on his cell. And another one five minutes later just in case. He doesn’t know Danick but he’s not sure mobsters speak in hyperbole, in his experience. 

“Do they have you doing chores for them?” 

“No. No one asked me to. I was just trying to be helpful.”

“You’re too nice.” 

Misha frowns. “Do you think the kitchen needs cleaning? I’m good at dishe--.”

“Alex doesn’t like people in his kitchen. He would throw more knives at you and Tony isn’t here to save you.”

“Wha...how do you know about that?” Misha sputters as they head back upstairs. 

Kuch smiles. “I know a lot of things.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is.” He unlocks and relocks his phone. “Vasy and I are on car duty. You can help if you’re bored.”

Misha feels a little bit like a puppy following Kuch around the house, hot on his heels, until they come across Vasy belly down on the living room floor. 

“I found a helper,” Kuch announces. 

Vasy some sort of ridiculous crab pose, Misha doesn’t know the name of it, and a little ball of grey fluff bounces into view. Misha gathers Bolt off the ground, presses a little kiss to the top of her head. She mews and tries to crawl onto his shoulder. 

“She likes to be up high,” Vasy says, rising gracefully to his feet. “You’re going to wash cars with us?”

“Whatever you need.” Misha lets Bolt lick his chin. 

“We definitely need you to wash the big truck,” Kuch says. 

“Don’t be a dick.” Vasy shoves him, knocking his phone out of his hand. “You can help me wash the little car and leave the big one to him.”

“You’re taller than me!” Kuch laments, chasing after his phone where it’s slid on the floor. “This isn’t fair.”

Vasy takes Bolt from Misha, sets her on one of the throw pillows on the nearest couch. “You stay there, koshka. We’ll be back.” He turns back. “Come on, before it gets too hot outside.”

“What is it with the heat here?” Misha asks, following Vasy towards the door.

Kuch snorts, but doesn’t offer any answer as he takes up the rear.

Misha slips on his sunglasses before taking a look at the array of cars spread out before them.

He rolls up his sleeves and grabs a bucket, ready to do what he does best.

Cleaning he can handle. 

//

Following everyone else downstairs to the basement that evening feels like a big deal to Misha. As far as he can tell, he’s the only person lower than a capo in attendance. He spots Jo leaning casually against the wall by the vault door and makes the mistake of meeting his gaze. 

Jo isn’t invited, Misha realizes. And whatever this meeting is about, he’s going to want Misha to tell him every detail. He follows the cute baby-faced one, Yanni, into the room and exhales. Jo can wait, right now he needs to focus.

Stammer is up near the front of the meeting room, Victor close by. He spots Alex and Tony and Bray all standing around the front row. Misha picks a seat near the back but not like, the very back. He wants to make a good impression but not cross any lines. 

He wonders if they have these meetings regularly or if this is something special. 

Oh no. What if they’ve figured him out. What if he talked in his sleep and Tony heard him and he probably didn’t explain himself very well, being asleep, and now this is the intervention. What if they’re going to execute him for...for _treason_.

He should leave. He doesn’t belong here. He should be out in the hall with Jo. 

Misha’s mere seconds away from having a full-on internal crisis when Tony steps up onto the podium in the front of the room and everything falls silent. Backs straighten, attention is willingly given. Stammer and Victor have taken their seats. 

_It’s Tony,_ Misha thinks wildly. _Tony is the kingpin._

All this time Misha thought it was Stammer. Everyone acts like it’s Stammer. This is…this is a lot of information to take in. Holy shit, this is--

How stupid he must have looked, offering to protect Tony. Offering Tony anything at all when he has hundreds of men much stronger than Misha at his disposal. How absolutely _stupid_. 

Tony starts talking, but Misha can’t even concentrate on any of it, because what the actual _fuck_. He is in over his head and he needs to just cut and run, maybe be can--

“Misha.” He looks up when Tony says his name. Everyone is looking at him and he’s pretty sure he’s about to be stabbed or something. “He will be a great asset to us as our newest capo.”

People are clapping him on the back, congratulating him, talking about how great it is, how much he’ll like his bigger, better apartment and all that sort of shit. 

He looks to the head of the room, at Tony who is looking down on him all benevolently pleased, and it suddenly dawns on him.

He could free his mom with this information. Free _himself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😲


	6. Chapter 6

After the meeting adjourns, Tony leads Misha up to the room he stayed in the first few weeks he was here, explains that it’s actually his locker now, that he can keep a change of clothes and any personal items he wants here. That he can sleep here in a pinch, if he wants to. Now that he’s a capo. 

He doesn’t want Misha sleeping anywhere other than his bed, but that’s beside the point.

“Which, I guess you already know about the sleeping part.” Tony pauses, feeling like a dumb ass. He’s relieved to see that Misha wants to ask a question. “Spit it out.” 

“You’re the kingpin.” 

Not a question but, “Yes.”

“How long?” 

Tony shrugs. “Long enough.” 

“But you go out and do jobs all the time. You showed me the ropes.”

“I’m not really a figurehead kind of guy. The inner family likes the way things are.”

Misha pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, tilts his gaze down to the floor. “You...bottomed. You let me fuck you.”

That wasn’t what Tony was expecting. “I mean, yeah? What does that have to do with anything? Did you not like it?”

Misha throws his hands up in surrender. “No. I mean _yes_ , I liked it a lot. Just, uh...”

Tony cocks his head. “Do you think I should have dominated you?”

Misha goes very red, quite fast. 

Tony kind of adores it, and it's perfect to play off of. He leans in so his lips just barely brush against Misha’s ear. “I could, you know. It’d be so easy.”

Misha visibly shivers. But Tony steps back, smooths out the cuffs of his rolled up shirt, making sure that he doesn’t have a single hair out of place. “Tonight I’ve got a job for you, though. If you’re up for it.”

//

It’s nearly midnight when Tony makes it up to the third floor apartment. He almost trips on the last step, throwing out a hand to catch himself on the door frame. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Victor says, dry. 

Tony pockets his phone with a huff. 

“Yeah, Koeks, that sounds good. Just stay quiet and keep your ear to the ground.” Stammer says from his desk chair, wrapping up this particular video conference.

“Will do, boss.” There’s a pause. “Can I ask you a, um, a personal question?”

Stammer nods. “Go on.”

“How is Braydon?”

Tony can sympathize with that question at the moment, settling into a chair just out of view of the computer. As a matter of fact, maybe he should check his phone again in case he didn’t feel it vibrate.

“He’s fine, Slater,” Stammer smiles gently, patiently. “I can make sure he’s here for your next check in, if you want.”

Tony’s phone is still annoyingly notification free.

“Yeah, that would be...I’d really appreciate it. Thanks.”

“Sure thing. See you next week.” He hangs up the call, turns to Tony. “Hey, quick question. Are you planning on being present for Bish’s call, or nah?”

Tony blinks, gives himself a little shake. “What do you...I’m just a little...I’m fine. Call him.”

“Yeah, okay.” Stammer rolls his eyes but turns his attention back to the computer without further objection. He taps the screen a couples of times and then the dumb little ringing tone is echoing around the room.

“Hey,” Bish answers. “We have to be quick, I don’t have much time, there’s a thing…”

Tony’s phone finally vibrates. He tries to be suave as he fishes it out of his pocket, dismayed when he sees that it’s just an alarm reminding him it’s time to call Bish. No shit. He scowls at his phone and shoves it back into his pocket.

“It’s okay here. I think Seguin would be easy to draw to our side. He has a thing for big brown doe eyes, so we could just…”

And now Tony is thinking about Misha’s eyes and how dark they went when Tony caged him in and offered to dominate him. His mind shifts to visions of pinning Misha under him, of making him beg for release. The cut of his jawline when he tips his head back to beg so prettily.

Tony’s mouth goes dry and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. Victor shoots him a confused look and he waves a hand in dismissal, points towards Stammer and the computer.

“Radulov and Nichushkin are already in, because of Vasy and Kuch.” That has Tony’s attention properly for the first time. Two more Russians on their side can’t be anything but advantageous.

Stammer raises his eyebrows, Tony nods. “Alright, that’s perfect, Bish. Thanks. Give us a call when you get a chance.”

“Okay, will do.” Stammer and Bish exchange pleasantries before he taps the screen to disconnect the call. 

Tony pulls out his phone again, frowns that it’s still blank. 

“Are you sure that you’re okay?” Victor asks.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just a little distracted.”

“We can see that,” Stammer complains. Victor laughs. 

Maybe they think it’s funny, but Tony is the one who sent a mostly green capo out to monitor the docks. And yeah, Tony sent really capable guys with him and Misha understands the docks, managed to survive there, but that is different than actually having to do something if they find any dirty Habs doing Habs Things. Or Panthers sniffing around. 

Fuck, he should have gone with Misha, should have left this to Stammer and Victor, who are more than capable to making these calls that they make every week at this time.

If something bad happens it will be his--

“Do you not want to do this right now?” Stammer asks. He sounds...disappointed, maybe a little pissed.

Fuck. Shit. Damn. “No, I’m fine, let’s finish this.”

Stammer purses his lips, but he turns and dials the next call without another word. 

“-ou fucking sent him _where_!?” a very angry Carter Verhaeghe shouts as he comes on screen. “You told me if we went to Syracuse, we would stay there and then you fucking send him to Nashv--.”

Stammer holds his hand up and Carter falls silent. “An opening came up and we took our chances.”

“You could have sent anyone else.” 

“Connor agreed to it.” 

Carter rolls his eyes. “How are any of us supposed to say no to you?” 

“This isn’t a dictatorship, it’s a family. If you don’t like the we run things, you can turn in your credentials.” Stammer sits back, crosses his legs. The perfect picture of nonchalance. 

Damn it, relationships are running rampant in this mob. Tony stretches out and kicks Stammer’s chair. He signals for him to lower his voice when he looks Tony’s way. They can afford to be a little softer in this particular situation. 

Stammer sets his jaw. “I’m...sorry. About this. But we’ll still need your report by tomorrow night. Keep us posted of any new developments.” He cuts the call before Carter has a chance to respond. “What the fuck?”

Tony sits back, crosses his legs. “We don’t have to be hard-asses all the time.” 

“Says Rocco Stoneheart,” Victor snips. 

“Carter’s going to be fine,” Tony says. “He’s a good soldier. Might be a capo in a few years.”

“Not with that attitude.” 

“Good thing you don’t make those decisions,” Tony says, standing. “You can take the rest of the calls without me.” 

He checks his phone one more time on his way back downstairs.


	7. Chapter 7

Misha takes in the docks, street lamps throwing little golden circles onto the wood every so often. The darkness of night makes it hard to see anything in the shadows. Misha tenses when a stray cat hisses and scampers across where he’s walking. He does not at all miss living here. Ondrej taps him on the shoulder and he looks over his shoulder at him. “Uh, yeah?”

“Look, you’re the capo on this job, but me and Tyler, we want to tell you something. For your own good.”

“Oh? What’s that?” Misha asks. He puffs himself up a bit. Ondrej isn’t being menacing, Misha isn’t totally sure he even could be, but he isn’t exactly in a ‘let’s be best friends’ stance either. 

“Boss is never going to stay with you,” Tyler says.

“Um.” Misha stops. He has no idea how to respond.

“We’ve literally never seen him with anyone before,” Ondrej pulls Misha’s attention back. It sort of makes Misha’s heart go all warm and gooey to hear that, but then he continues, “He’s our leader, the father of our family. We are all he has and he’s just never going to settle down with you.”

“I-I wouldn’t ever ask him to--”

“His nickname is Stoneheart,” Tyler interrupts. “He didn’t get it for no reason.”

“He’s never going to love you,” Ondrej adds, driving the point home.

Misha tries not to think about how quickly his heart sinks to the pit of his stomach, how his face is surely flushing. He’s trying to think of some smart reply, anything to change the subject, when suddenly, “Look out, behind you!” 

Some fucker dressed all in black jumps Misha from behind, the blade of his knife glints in the moonlight as he tries to hold him with the sharp end against his throat. Ondrej and Tyler are in fights of their own, not in any position to help him. Misha takes a deep breath and thinks about the things that Tony’s taught him, all the moves he’s tried out on the mat in the gym. The guy walks him backwards and Misha knows they’re heading closer to the water. He doesn’t have much time to make a choice. 

He throws his head back with as much force as he can muster, cracking his skull against the soft parts of the guy’s nose. His hold loosens and Misha wiggles free, turning to try and knock the knife from the guy’s hand. 

He gets the better of Misha, catching his arm with the tip of his blade and drawing a long, skinny line down his skin.

Misha cleans his clock. “Don’t be a fucking bitch ass!” Misha yells as Tyler comes to a stop next to him. He pulls a gun and shoots that guy in the knee. 

“That’s for the ivory,” he snarls.

Ondrej walks up and spits on the guy for good measure. “You need to call for a clean up. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

Misha rushes after them, settling in the backseat of the car and fumbling with his phone to place a call. He realizes he’s shaking, his own blood soaking through his shirtsleeve. He tries to breathe through it, distract himself. “What, uh, what did you mean about the ivory?”

Pally catches his gaze in the rear-view mirror. “Fucking Habs. Always trying to push dirty shit through our ports.”

Oh fuck. 

//

The three of them are immediately faced with Tony when they rush through the door of the house. 

“What happened?” 

“We can only assume the Habs were trying to clear the way for another shipment. Three of them jumped us but we got the upper hand,” Ondrej explained. “Misha called for a clean up as we were leaving. There shouldn’t be any evidence.” 

“You’re sure it was the Habs?” Tony asks. 

“The guy who grabbed me had a mark,” Tyler says. 

“Very well, good work. Get yourselves to Stralsy, he’s waiting up.” There’s something in the set of Tony’s eyebrows when he dismisses them. 

Misha gives a small nod and turns, planning to return to his locker and clean up his arm himself. 

“Misha, wait.” 

He stops at Tony’s command, turns back. He hears Ondrej and Tyler’s footsteps fade on the stairs, a door close behind them when they reach the top.

“Are you okay?” Tony asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine, it’s just,” Misha scoffs, shrugs. “A little scratch, it’s nothing. I can clean it up myself.”

Tony walks up to him, pulls his arm out and pushes up his sleeve. The cut is barely deep enough to bleed but it stings where the cotton had started to stick to it. Tony studies the red raised skin around it. “I don’t want you to think you aren’t safe here.” 

“I know I’m safe here, Tony. I feel safe when I’m with you.” Misha is surprised by how true the words feel. 

Tony frowns, "I sleep with a gun under my pillow." 

And Misha smiles sadly. "Maybe it's that."

“Come with me.” Tony tugs on his good arm, bringing Misha up the stairs and back to his room. “I’ll feel better if I take care of this stab wound myself.” 

“God, Tony. It’s not a _wound_. I’m fine."

“Just let me, okay?”

Misha sighs, but allows Tony to lead him back up to his room and treat it. He does sort of like watching Tony’s able fingers dance lightly over his arm. He’s so caught up in watching Tony that he doesn’t even realize what Tony’s doing until they’re both in bed, snug, Misha’s bruised up side and bandaged arm comfortable. 

Misha doesn’t want this. He doesn't want Tony to be so careful with him, to think he’s made of glass moments away from shattering. He takes Tony’s hand and puts it on top of a bruise, presses a finger into it and groans. 

“Misha, what---.”

“I’m not gonna break.”

“I know but you’re hur--.”

“I’m not _hurt_ ,” he says, catching Tony’s gaze, holding it. “Lemme show you how fine I am. Roll to your other side,” Misha mutters, pushing gently at Tony’s shoulder until he rolls over. He moves himself up against Tony’s back until they’re flush, every possible inch touching. “I’m fine, Tony.” He pushes his hips into Tony’s backside. “Don’t I feel fine?”

“Misha,” Tony whines, moving back to meet him.

“You’re so beautiful, did y’know that?” Misha asks, burying his face into the curve of Tony’s neck.

“What? No,” Tony replies. Misha’s lips definitely have him distracted. He’s pleased with his work.

“God, you are. You _so_ are.” Misha drags a slow hand down Tony’s torso, tracing all the lines through the thin material of his tank top along the way. “I never stop thinking about you, like ever.” He smiles into the space behind Tony’s ear. “Maybe that’s what got me in trouble tonight.”

“Another thing that we have to teach you?” Tony asks, looking over his shoulder at Misha. “How to succeed despite distractions?”

“Hey, I succeeded.” Misha grins, lets it go crooked. “You shoulda seen the other guy.”

Tony rolls back towards him, runs a couple of fingers up Misha’s jawline. He can’t help but close his eyes at the sensation.

“I just don’t want anything to happen to you,” Tony says softly.

Misha lets his eyes flutter back open. “Yeah?” 

Tony sucks in his bottom lip, bites at it. “I mean, you’re one of us now, so, you know.”

He blushes and Jesus, it’s so attractive. Misha doesn’t even know what to do with everything Tony makes him feel. He settles for slipping his fingers into Tony’s curls. 

“You shouldn’t put so much gel in your hair,” he mutters, stealing a kiss before Tony can open his mouth to reply.

“Can’t have it falling into my eyes when I’m doing work,” Tony says afterward.

“Doing work, huh? Is that what we call it now?” Misha nips at Tony’s bottom lip, pulls gently. 

Tony moans and it sounds divine. “Is there something else we’ve ever called it?” he asks. 

Misha squeezes Tony’s hair and kisses him deeply in reply. “Let’s worry about it later.”

“That sounds like admitting defeat to me,” Tony’s face breaks into a little crooked smile.

“Maybe I’d just rather just stop talking and get my hands on you,” Misha counters.

“Mmm, maybe.” 

And Misha has had enough of Tony’s sass. “You should take this off,” he orders, pulling at the hem of Tony’s shirt. “We should at least be even while I’m showing you how fine I am.”

“You too, though,” Tony says, pulling his shirt off and tossing it over the side of the bed.

“I’m...already shirtless?” Misha raises his eyebrows before pressing them together in confusion.

“Maybe you aren’t okay if you don’t know that I mean…” Tony trails off, plays with the waistband of Misha’s boxers. 

“What you said didn’t make sense, that is not my fault,” Misha replies, reaching for Tony’s boxers. Tony opens his mouth, but Misha is faster, pushing the band down and wrapping his hand around Tony’s half-hard dick. He hisses, arching into Misha’s grip. He lets his voice drop when he continues, “I’m gonna make you feel so good, though.”

“W-wait, no.” Tony places his hand on Misha’s, stopping him.

“No?” Misha ghosts a kiss to the corner of Tony’s mouth. “Why not?”

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you here,” Tony says in reply. 

“You gonna fuck me?” Misha suppresses a shudder. God, he wants.

“Yes.” Tony nudges Misha onto his back, climbing on top of him. He smirks down at Misha. “And no.”

“Tony,” Misha whines when Tony leans away, but he’s just rooting around in his end table.

“We need these, don’t we?” Tony asks, dropping a condom onto Misha’s chest. He waves the lube around a little bit. “Wanna help me get ready?”

Misha swallows. “Um. Yes.”

Tony’s smile is soft, softer then Misha has ever seen when he spreads some lube onto Misha’s fingers. He guides Misha’s hand down and around. “So, help me, then.”

So Misha does. Tony opens up easily for him, but Misha can hardly pay attention to that when he’s being treated to the elegant line of Tony’s neck when he throws his head back, the sounds escaping him as his back arches while Misha works. The way he mutters Misha’s name like it’s some sort of prayer.

He’s fucking obscene and Misha can’t believe he gets to have this.

“‘M ready,” Tony mutters, his hands dropping onto Misha’s chest. “C’mon.” 

Misha grasps for the condom, finding the spot it slipped to on the bed after a couple of seconds. He wastes a few more precious seconds trying to open it because of the lube on his hands, eventually managing to tear the foil. Tony hardly waits for him to slide it all the way on before he’s sinking onto him. His fingers dig into Misha’s chest, leaving small red marks in their wake. 

He hopes they will leave better bruises than the ones he already has.

“Just, um.” Tony swallows, adjusts himself. “Just let me do all the work, okay?”

“No promises,” Misha replies. He plants his feet, pushes upward.

“No, no.” Tony grabs Misha’s hands, places them on his hips. “Put your hands anywhere you want, but let me do the work.”

“Tony--”

“Promise me.” Tony leans in, kisses Misha. “Promise me you’ll leave the work to me.” 

He looks Misha in the eye, doesn’t break contact. It feels like he’s giving an order, but there’s also a plea in the way that he’s looking at Misha, a plea that Misha can’t deny.

“Okay, I promise,” Misha breathes, squeezing at Tony’s hips for emphasis. The smile he gets in reply would make him agree to anything. “But only for you.”

There’s a shift in Tony’s eyes just before he starts moving over Misha. It takes everything he has to stop himself from thrusting up to meet Tony’s movements. He bites at his bottom lip, settles his thumbs into the grooves of Tony’s hips.

“How are you so hot?” Misha asks, mostly to distract himself from how close to the edge he already is.

“Pretty sure you’re the hot one here,” Tony replies, dropping his hands on either side of Misha’s head. His curls are hanging down across his forehead and it may be the best thing Misha’s ever seen. “But you’re mine, right?”

Tony’s question sends a red hot shot of pleasure shooting through him. “Mm-hmm.”

“What’s that? I couldn’t hear you.” He shifts, elongating his movements. It’s a lot and Misha doesn’t know how much longer he can-- “I said I couldn’t hear you.”

Misha slides his hands around to Tony’s ass, cups it as his slips a finger alongside where Tony is riding him, shivers when he feels the slide. “Y-yours. I’m yours.”

“All mine?” Tony asks, leaning closer.

Misha swallows around a big lump in his throat, nods. “Yes, all yours,” he whines. 

Tony kisses him, biting on his bottom lip, and it’s the perfect tipping point for him. Misha squeezes, trying in vain to slow him. Tony pays him no mind, rides him through his orgasm. 

He reaches for Tony’s dick the second he stills, uses every trick he can think of to work him up to the edge as quickly as he can manage. He places his free hand on the back of Tony’s head, pulls him close. “Dunno what you’re talking about, cause you’re gorgeous.”

“M-Misha,” Tony manages. Misha pulls him in, kisses him through his orgasm.

He collapses onto Misha in the aftermath. He loves the weight of Tony holding him still, thinks he shouldn’t ever be anywhere else but on top of him.

“Love how my name sounds on your lips when you’re coming,” Misha says, fingers still tangled in Tony’s hair. Tony groans in reply. “C’mon, let’s go get cleaned up,” he suggests softly. 

It takes everything he has to hold in the sound that wants to escape him when Tony slips free.

//

Back in bed with Tony snoring quietly next to him, Misha can’t help but reach out and lightly touch his face. Tony doesn’t move at all. It makes Misha feel all fuzzy inside that Tony trusts him this much. That he maybe feels just as safe as Misha does in this bed.

And that’s why Misha can’t betray Tony. Why he won’t. Tony makes him feel like he’s worth something, that he matters. He’s a good leader who builds schools and takes care of orphans. It’s important work that has to continue, and that means more than anything to do with him. His shitty mission, the possibility of buying his freedom, none of that means a thing next to Tony and the great things he does here. Sometimes it takes a little bad to do a lot of good, but that doesn’t make Tony bad. Good things done with dirty money are still good things. 

He doesn’t know what he’ll do about Jo or the threats against his mom. And he _knows_ what the others said about how Tony won’t ever return his feelings, but he also knows that Tony wants him now, and that’s enough.

Right now he’s in the only place he’s felt safe in years, so he’s going to sleep and worry about it all later. Misha slips his arm around Tony, carefully pulling him closer. He buries his nose into Tony’s curls and drifts off in no time at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hbd, Tony 🎉


	8. Chapter 8

Tony wakes up slowly, uncharacteristically slowly. But he knows he fell asleep with Misha, that the arms around him and the legs twisted up in his belong to someone he trusts. He knows he could still reach his gun but he’s...he feels safe. 

In this house with this person. Wow. 

Misha snuffles and tugs Tony closer which makes him smile and brush through Misha’s hair with his fingers. “Morning.” 

Misha kind of stretches, arching his back and pushing his chest out. “Morning,” he says through a yawn. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I could keep sleeping.” Misha’s stomach grumbles. “And possibly eat.” 

Tony scoots closer, putting his head on the pillow Misha’s using. “Let me see your arm.”

Misha whines but lets Tony gently pull off the bandage and brush soft fingers over the fresh scab. With luck it won’t even scar. He’s satisfied with that and bops a quick kiss to Misha’s nose. “Seems like you’ll live.” He goes for light, hoping none of his worry and protectiveness comes through. 

“Of course I’ll live,” Misha huffs. 

“I was looking at you,” he says, changing the subject. Because apparently he’s failed at keeping any of that shit under wraps. “Last night. You don’t have a mark. None at all, not even for your family.” 

The comment seems to harden Misha. “Never got around to it, that’s all.” 

“Do you want one?” 

Misha meets his gaze. “Everyone else has one.” 

“You can get one for us. For the mob.” Tony brushes the blank skin under Misha’s collar bone with his thumb. “To show everyone you’re ours.”

“Yours,” Misha corrects. “I’m yours, not anyone else’s.”

That makes something weird happen in Tony’s chest, like a million flowers just bloomed on the surface of his heart. “Then get one for me.”

“What should I get?” Misha asks, barely above a whisper. 

Tony should say a lightning bolt or the area code some of the boys have but he doesn't. He takes Misha’s hand, puts it over the family mark just under his own collarbone. "How about this?"

Misha traces the little crest and the tiny wings wrapped around it. “Okay.” 

“I know a guy, he’s good. Whenever you want to go, I’ll call him.”

“Today,” Misha blurts. “I want it today.” 

Tony is almost vibrating with joy. “I’ll call him. We’ll go today.” 

Misha kisses him and there’s a lot of morning breath happening but Tony just can’t be bothered by it. He kisses Misha back until they’re both raring to go, hands fumbling across each other’s skin, grasping and clutching and Tony gets Misha on his back, sucks a bright red mark under his collarbone. “Get it here,” he says against the skin. “So everyone will see it.” 

Misha groans but nods. “Yeah, so everyone will know.” 

“Won’t even have to ask,” Tony says, kissing his way down Misha’s chest, over his stomach. “They’ll see my mark on you and just _know_.” 

Misha makes an undignified noise when Tony drags his tongue up the length of his dick. “Is this okay?”

“Please,” Misha says, getting his fingers in Tony’s messy bedhead. “Please, don’t stop.” 

As if Tony would deny him anything. 

//

The tattoo parlor isn’t far from the house, unassuming with its tattered yellow awning over the door. The windows are blacked out and covered in neon. Guitar-heavy rock music spills out onto the sidewalk when Tony opens the door. 

“Bugsy!” Tony calls into the empty shop. 

A head of light brown curls pops around the very professional curtain hanging to separate the entry from the guns. “You’re early,” he says, turning down the music. 

“I’m always early,” Tony replies. 

“Is this my canvas?” 

“Misha,” Tony introduces. “This is Bugsy. He’s done all of our marks for years.”

Bugsy reaches out to shake Misha’s hand. “What are you getting? A lightning bolt, 813, both?”

“Actually,” Tony answers. “We were thinking something a little different.” _Closer to the_ heart, he doesn’t say. 

“Oooh, a challenge?” He rubs his hands together. “Let’s have a look.”

Tony clears his throat and steps up closer to Bugsy, pulls down his shirt so his family mark is showing.

Bugsy doesn’t say anything, just cocks an eyebrow. He pokes it. “I didn’t do this one, did I?”

“Uh, no. No, I had it done in Canada. Before I moved down here.” It’s too much information. Bugsy could probably guess it’s not a mob mark without Tony just giving it away. 

“Linework is pretty good for how small it is,” Bugsy critiques. “I can do better.” 

“Great.” Tony steps back, pulls his shirt up to cover himself fully again. “You ready?”

Misha nods.

“Where are we doing this?” Bugsy asks, squatting down onto a little rolly stool and sliding over to the chair Misha’s settled on. 

“Same place,” Tony blurts. “Right, uh, right under the collarbone.” Jesus fuck, he needs to calm down. Breathe. 

Bugsy doesn’t comment, just gets Misha to take his shirt off and sterilizes the area. “Should I put it on top of the fresh hickey or a little to the left?” 

Tony watches Misha’s cheeks tint pink. “On top of it.” 

Bugsy laughs under his breath, starts up the gun. “You got it, boss.” 

With the first touch of the needle, it’s clear Misha’s tolerance for this kind of pain is low. He grits his teeth and clenches his hands into fists. Tony knows it’s not the most pleasant spot to have marked, probably not the best place to start with. 

He moves to stand on the other side of the chair, takes Misha’s hand without a word. 

It’s not possessive, he reasons with himself. He’s just helping. And watching his mark get etched into Misha’s skin. Permanent. 

This is normal. 

“Do you want the gold, too?” Bugsy is clearly asking Tony and not Misha. He’s looked up from the half-finished tattoo, waiting. 

“Yes.”

Misha squeezes Tony’s hand. “It’s going to look good.”

Tony thinks it’s going to look perfect but he squeezes Misha’s hand back instead of saying anything ridiculous like that out loud. 

Bugsy is quick, or at least it feels that way. The mark comes together in almost no time and Tony wants to touch it. He wants to trace the raised skin, put his mouth on it. God, Misha has made him this way without even trying. 

Watching the little gold wings get drawn, Tony’s almost wild with the thought of Misha by his side forever. Because that’s what it means. It means that Misha is part of Tony’s _family_.

“Hey,” Misha says, squeezing Tony’s hand. “I’m the one in pain why are you trying to hyperventilate?”

“What? No, I’m...fine. Are you okay? He’s almost done I’m pretty sure.” 

“Yup,” Bugsy agrees. “Couple more lines.”

“You’re doing great.” Tony leans down to whisper it in Misha’s ear. “So great for me.” 

Misha’s fingernails bite into the back of Tony’s hand. 

“Ta-dah!” Bugsy announces, wiping the extra ink off for the last time. “All finished, what do you think?”

He offers Misha a hand mirror and Tony watches with bated breath. Misha smiles. “Looks just like yours.” 

“Yeah,” he says, exhaling. “It looks good.” 

“Well then my work here is done.” Bugsy takes off his gloves and stands. “You need to protect that area for a little while. Don’t send him on any physical jobs for a week or two, you hear me?”

Tony shrugs. “I’ll see what I can do.”


	9. Chapter 9

Misha traces the mark all the time as it heals, looks at it in the mirror as much as he can. It’s perfect. But the secret he’s keeping from Tony is eating away at him. Jo keeps bothering him for information, popping up in the most inopportune times. 

He knows that he should tell Tony. Tony will help him.

He just has to do it. Just do it. Fucking _do it._

Misha finishes putting the vaseline on his mark and covers it with gauze. He checks the clock when he’s done. Perfect, he knows exactly where Tony is at this time of day. 

He finds Tony down in the basement, in the vault as expected. He’s doing something with a handgun. Misha stops in the doorway and watches him for a second before he falters. This is so big and it’s the worst and if Tony doesn’t--

No. He can’t keep this to himself anymore. It doesn’t matter if Tony’s nickname is Rocco Stoneheart, doesn’t matter that Tony will never love him, because Misha knows he cares at least a little bit, enough that he will help Misha solve this problem. 

He steps into the vault. “Hey.”

Tony looks up at him, offers him the smallest smile. “Hey.” He pauses, cocks his head. “What’s wrong?”

Right, reading people is his thing. Misha takes a deep breath, swallows. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“About what?” Tony asks. He looks a little bit confused, but that’s because Misha needs to just spit this out.

“It’s about my dad.”

“Your dad?”

"Um, so, you know about the gambling and stuff?” 

Tony nods. 

“Well, he ran up a huge debt to one of the other mobs. So much that there was no way that he’d ever be able to pay them back with money.” 

“Was it the Habs? I bet it was the Habs; they’re notorious for that sort of shit,” Tony says. Misha winces.

“Yeah, it was them.” Misha runs a hand through his hair, steps closer to Tony. “He came up with a payment they would accept though.”

“Real estate?” Tony asks before immediately answering himself, “No, probably not in Russia.” He looks back to Misha with raised eyebrows. “What did they accept?”

“A person.” Misha sighs. “Me, he gave them me.”

“He...what?”

“I cleaned a lot of toilets and did a lot of laundry, but then one day Shea pulled me away and told me that there was a proper job for me now. They dropped me at the docks with just the clothes on my back and told me to find out who the Bolts kingpin is. That if I couldn’t do that my mom was good as dead.” Tony’s face is stony now and Misha rushes to continue, “But I didn’t tell them anything. I haven’t! I wouldn’t! You’re too important, you mean too much and there’s no way I would ever. I could never…” Misha trails off when anger flashes across Tony’s face. “Tony?”

“I trusted you.” Tony’s voice is cold and laced with a quiet fury. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to gain my-- You’re a _liar_ , a fucking liar, and I can’t believe that I…” He clenches his hands into fists. “I don’t employ liars. You should go back to Montreal.”

"I'm not one of them, I’m not! I never was. It’s your mark that I carry. I'm _yours_ ." He begs Tony, not knowing what else he can do. His mind is reeling, this is all going wrong. "Please, _please_ don't send me back there. I’m better off dead than I would be there.” Misha shakes his head, reaches for Tony’s hand.

He yanks it away. 

“Tony, I belong to you. I swear."

“You would have told me right away if you were really mine.”

"My mom! They were going to kill my _mom_! What would you do?"

Tony’s face is hard when he says, "I would have gone to you and worked out how to fix it."

“That’s what I’m trying to do!”

“Then why didn’t you say something to me sooner? Before you fucked me or I fucked you, or maybe before I was worried about you being injured by them? Or was that just a ploy to get closer to me?!”

“No, Tony, I--”

“Don’t bother with more lies! You’ve been lying to me all of this time! You’re probably going to leave here and go straight to them, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t betrayed you. I won't.” He doesn’t know how to make Tony understand, how to make him _believe_. He drops to his knees, sucks in a shaky breath. It’s like the Habs _knew_ that this would be the outcome, that he’d never be worth it to anyone. They didn’t want him and no one else would either if he confessed. 

He’s out of options since Tony won’t help him.

“Kill me. Just...Kill me. I get it now, I’m worthless, but they won't punish my mom if I’m taken out of the equation." 

"Take yourself out if you mean it," Tony says, no inflection in his voice when he holds his gun out. 

Misha takes it, puts it right up to his head. His hand is shaking, but he will do this. He will. Life without Tony is no life at all, he has _nothing._ "Anything for you." 

Tears slide down his face when he squeezes his eyes shut and pulls the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💀


	10. Chapter 10

There’s a hollow click. And another. Then three more in quick succession.

Tony’s heart stops, time slowing with it. Each empty chamber that sounds is another piece shattering. He watches in slow motion as Misha realizes it isn’t loaded, reaching for the shelf, for another gun. But none of them are going to work. 

“Stop,” Tony orders. “They’re all empty.” 

Misha folds over his knees and sobs. 

Tony kicks the guns away, makes himself as cold and uncaring as he knows how to be. “Get out of my sight, Mikhail. If I ever see you in this city again, I’ll make sure the gun is loaded.”

Misha is visibly shaking when he gets to his feet, face streaked with tears, eyes watery and so, so lost.

Too bad it's all a fucking act. 

“Tony…”

“I said get _out_!”

He waits until he can’t hear Misha’s footsteps before he screams, echoing off the walls of the empty vault. 

//

“Jesus Christ, I am such a fucking moron,” Tony half-shouts the second he steps into Stammer’s apartment.

“Um, what?” Stammer strolls out of his bedroom, looking entirely too calm for the situation.

“You need to take kingpin back.”

“What, no.” Stammer shakes his head. “It’s, like, your birthright. And anyway, where did this shit come from?”

“I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how to trust the right people and I put everyone in danger and it’d just be better if you took it back before I kill us all.” Tony takes a shuddering breath, tries to calm himself and fails.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Stammer squints at him, takes a couple steps closer. “What could have possibly happened to make you think this?”

“Misha is a spy,” Tony blurts.

“There's no way.” Stammer stops, his face screws up in what is obviously confusion. “He works too hard and the way he looks at you is--”

“A lie. It was all a lie, Stammer,” Tony sighs, sags a bit. “He confessed to me. I’m a fool.” He feels his eyes try and fill, but forces his stupid worthless feelings down. “I trusted the one person who could have ruined us all, so you need to take it back.” He swallows. “Make me a capo again. And also, maybe break a couple of my fingers in punishment, or something.”

Stammer laughs. “Do you think that this is the first mistake any kingpin of the Bolts has ever made?”

“This is a really big--”

“Tony.” Stammer walks up to him, places his hands on Tony’s shoulders, squeezes. “Remember when I deferred to Marty instead of taking over when I should have?”

“I-”

“And do you think that Dave never messed up? Or Vinny?” He gives Tony a little shake. “And what about when Phil trusted Len Barrie? You think this could possibly be worse then the time that fucker almost bankrupted us?”

“This _is_ worse,” Tony insists.

“You catching a traitor before he betrays us is not worse than Len Barrie, sorry.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive,” Stammer smiles. “Go work out some of your anger, you’ll feel better.”

Tony thinks about objecting again, rolls the words around in his mouth, but ultimately heads back downstairs. 

He goes all the way to the basement, into the gym. He throws fist after fist, punch after punch, picturing his own face on the punching bag, tears pricking at his eyes again. God, he’s so fucking weak, caring about someone when he knows better.

That’s what he gets for not thinking with his head.

Misha asked him so many times why Tony trusted him. Tried to tip him off so many times that he was a fucking rat, that the way he acted with Tony was just that. An act.

For fucks’ sake, Misha said that he’s _beautiful_. How did _that_ not tip him off? Guys like him aren’t _beautiful_.

“Tony?” 

He looks up when Alex says his name, goes back to punching. 

“I think that’s enough,” Alex says, crossing to him, gently catching his wrists. “Don’t wanna get your blood everywhere. Lemme clean those.”

He wants to object, but allows Alex to lead him over to a bench. He presses a cloth against Tony’s bloody knuckles, pats at them a couple of times before glancing up. There’s a little smirk on his face. 

Tony is probably not in the mood right now. 

"Maybe I should tell you about the time Kuch almost killed me."

It catches Tony off guard, he almost laughs. “What did you do to piss off Kuch?”

“Well, you know I used to be more full of myself, and super reckless.”

Tony thinks _used to be_ might be overreaching it. “Yeah.”

“Well, one time I was a little too careless and I put Pally and Johnny in danger. They were almost badly injured because I thought that I could make a throw that is impossible for anyone, even me.” Alex grimaces. “And you know how he’s all weird and protective over Pally and Johnny.”

It’s true. Tony was surprised to find out that Kuch had never had a thing with them, that the infamous Bloody Lovers were two and not three. Years later he’d be surprised again to learn, well, it isn’t important when he’s having a crisis. And Alex is talking again.

“So, yeah. Until you’ve had a pissed off Kuch coming at you with a cocked gun, you’re still golden.”

“Alex, I don’t know how this makes anything better.” Tony frowns, Alex mirrors him. 

“I think it’s time that you finally go talk to Vinny,” he says after a minute. 

Tony opens his mouth to object. 

“Nope, no way. We have a consigliere for a reason and you’ve put off seeing him long enough. _Go_.”

Tony huffs the angriest sigh he can muster. “Fine.”

**//**

Vinny smiles when he answers the door. “I’ve been expecting you.” 

He lets Tony in and pours him tea, sits him down in the lanai with the ceiling fan on.

“Things are going well, then?” he asks, smirk hidden in the brim of his teacup. 

Tony feels weird drinking out of something so delicate, having to be careful. He sets his cup back in its saucer. “You know?”

“Of course I know.”

“Then you know what a failure I am, letting someone like him into our house.”

Vinny sits back in his chair. “Is that what you want to hear?” he asks. “That you’re a failure? The worst failure that’s ever been a mob boss? The worst failure in the history of the mafia?”

Tony grits his teeth. He knows when he’s being patronized. “No.”

“Okay, let’s stop calling everything that happened a failure then and talk about the real reason you’re here.”

Tony doesn’t bite.

“We haven’t had to do this yet, so I understand your hesitance, but you’re going to have to tell me things. Most of the time I’m already going to know them, so there’s really no use pretending you’re keeping something close to the chest.”

Tony hates this. “I trusted him and he betrayed me.”

“Carle betrayed you. Tyson betrayed you. You got over those pretty quickly.”

“I didn’t care about them!” He knows what he’s confessed the moment it’s left his mouth. The implication of it. He’s not supposed to care. 

“There it is.”

Tony shoves his fingers through his hair, tugging on it. Idiot, idiot, idiot. 

“I know they call you Stoneheart but it doesn’t have to be that way. You’re human and you shouldn’t do this job without caring.”

Tony swallows, looks down at the carpet between his feet. “But he didn’t care back.”

Vinny sighs. “You have to know that he is dedicated to you. What would have happened to him going back to the Habs with your personal mark on him?”

Tony’s stomach sinks. “That was reckless.”

“Maybe so,” Vinny says. “But he did it. Without hesitation. And that means something.”

“He was playing a part.”

“And you think he’s that good of an actor, hm? Clumsy in a fight, the breakdown about his dad and gambling, how he looks at you. All an act?”

“Yes,” Tony snaps. He studies the little painted roses on his cup, traces the swirling pattern with his eyes to avoid looking at Vinny. 

“You can’t honestly believe that,” Vinny spits. “Come on, Tony. You’re the best read in this whole organization. You know a person the very first time you meet them so why would you question your intuition here?”

Tony huffs, crossing his arms across his chest. 

“You saw something good in him that day on the docks. Something so good that you brought him here, you trained him, gave him a job and a place to live. You don’t do that for just anyone.”

“I know!” Tony leans forward, elbows on his knees. “It was stupid.”

“Look at me,” Vinny says, voice gentle.

Tony does.

“He didn’t do anything to try and prove loyalty to you? Nothing at all?”

“No!” He groans. “This is what I’m saying! I’m an idiot!” 

Vinny stands abruptly and Tony thinks he’s crossed a line, but Vinny goes to the little cart by the window and pours two generous glasses of brandy. “You are definitely an idiot, that I can see.” He settles back in his chair. “But it’s not because you misread Misha. It’s because you let your anger cloud your judgement. He came to you with a problem and you told him to fuck off.”

“He betrayed me.”

“He did not,” Vinny says, stern. “He put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger _five times_ to prove that he chose you. But you rejected him.”

His words settle in Tony’s chest like lead. “How did you kn...”

Vinny sips his brandy with judgmental eyebrows. 

“I’ve gotta go. I’m…” Tony shoots his liquor. “Thank you.”

Vinny waves him off, smiling. Satisfied.


	11. Chapter 11

**_Three hours earlier_ **

Misha ducks into the nearest alley. He’s shaking from adrenaline, tears streaming freely down his face. He doesn’t know what to do. He thought Tony would understand, that Tony actually cared about him, about what would happen if he went back to Montreal. Enough to save him. At least enough to...to…

No one cares about him, it doesn’t matter. 

He has to leave. Get out of here and away from all of this. He’s the worst mafioso that’s ever lived, always putting his faith in the wrong people. Every single time he trusts the wrong person. 

He believed Shea when he said Misha was good for this job, that this was his way up. And then Shea dropped him on a dock with no information, left him to starve.

He trusted Brendan who first brought him to the Habs house, introduced him to Shea and Carey. Trusted him when he said they were good people, that they would look out for him. And they threatened his mom.

He trusted...god, even his own father took his trust and threw it away like it meant nothing. Gave him up to a mob without a second thought.

And, in the biggest fuck up of them all, he’s stupid enough to think that Tony is different from the others. That he’s nice, someone that Misha could trust with his heart even if he wouldn’t ever truly want it. But no, Tony took it and crushed it under his shiny dress shoes. Ondrej and Tyler tried to warn him, but he didn’t believe that he meant _nothing_.

He’ll never mean anything at all, though. He knows that now. 

Misha heaves a shuddering sigh, gives himself a little shake. He needs a clear head if he’s going to get out of here. He dashes from the alley and down the street, towards his apartment.

He wonders where he can go that he won’t be found by the Habs.

He bets Oklahoma is pretty mob-free, maybe that will be a good place for hi--

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll talk to him, see what he says.”

Misha stops at the sound of Jo’s voice, doorknob still in his hand. He sags. This is the absolute last thing that he wants to deal with right now. 

Jo doesn’t turn, doesn’t give any indication he’s heard Misha’s arrival, and his next words make Misha’s blood run cold, “I don’t think that he’s ours, Shea. He’s in on all the closed-door meetings and yet he never has anything to give us?” 

“What are you doing here?” Misha asks. He hopes it seems like he’s just walked in, that he didn’t hear any of Jo’s conversation. 

“I just needed to talk to you,” Jo says, springing around to face him, hand reaching for the tiny handgun he keeps strapped to his hip. Misha squints at the action, wonders where his phone is, but then he’s already speaking again, “You have to give me something, they’re getting impatient in Montreal.”

Misha doesn’t care that Tony just disowned him, he still gave his word, so he isn’t going to tell Jo jack shit. “I’ve just been uninvited to the meetings, sorry.”

“No you weren’t,” Jo scoffs at him. “They all love you too much, there’s no way.”

“I was, sorry,” Misha shrugs, turns away from Jo, who slinks around him. 

“You better tell me something to give Shea right now, or you’re going to regret it.”

“Got nothing, sorry,” Misha repeats. 

“Stop bullshitting me!” Jo shouts, shoving him. 

He isn’t taking abuse from this asshole right now. Not after everything that’s happened. He punches Jo, putting everything he learned from Tony into it. It hurts knowing that he didn’t deserve to learn any of it.

“What the _shit_ , you asshole?!” Misha almost feels better for half a second, but then everything goes black.

//

He comes to, feeling woozy, his wrists bound in a zip tie. Shea comes into focus standing over him, arms crossed. He’s talking to Jo, whose hand is covering the eye Misha punched.

“We made enough of a mess, stay behind and tell them he was taken, that the Habs said that only the kingpin will be allowed to retrieve him. We’ll do his job for him.”

“Will do, Boss,” Jo says even as he pouts and rubs at his face. “Maybe he’ll be good as bait, if nothing else.”

The joke’s on them, he won’t even make good bait because Tony doesn't care what happens to Misha. He certainly isn’t going to show his face to _rescue_ him.

“He’s awake.”

Shea pulls a small bottle from his pocket and wets a cloth with the liquid inside, passing it off to Jo. “Keep him out until the car’s ready.” 

//

The first thing Misha notices when he comes to again is the steady roar of an engine, static, white noise. He’s on a plane, already in the air and on the way somewhere. He tries to move, only to realize that he’s bound to a chair, tied in place with cables. 

How barbaric.

“You’d be better off cooperating, Misha,” Shea says from somewhere off to his right. He blinks over groggily.

“I obviously don’t know what’s good for me,” he replies.

“No, I guess you don’t, since you didn’t even respond to a threat against your mother.”

“Yeah, and what’s with that, you asshole? You said it was a job and then you promptly gave me nothing to go on or work with, left me with nothing but a fucking threat against my mom.” Misha knows that he isn’t in any position to make demands like this, but what does it matter at this point?

“You were too comfortable.” Shea’s looking at his phone, studying something on the screen.

“Oh, yeah, making ten bucks a day doing hard labor and living at the docks in Tampa for two months. That was super fucking comfortable.”

“Well, you sure didn’t respond.” Shea shrugs. “We figured that you realized that we aren’t actual trash that would attack someone's mom and that’s why you didn’t respond.”

“I’m pretty sure the lot of you _are_ actual trash, even if you won’t do that _one thing_ ,” Misha spits. 

Shea looks up. Not at Misha, but to someone over his shoulder. “God, just shut him up.”

A cloth covers his face and he tries to hold his breath, to fake it, but everything goes black again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no


	12. Chapter 12

It’s a pain in the ass, getting off Davis island at this time of day. Tony is impatient with joy, swerving between slow moving cars to try and get to the apartment just a few seconds faster. He was so unbelievably stupid, so quick to judge. He hopes Misha hasn’t left yet. 

The apartment he gave to Misha is in a quiet part of town, tucked behind a patch of palm trees and bright, flowering bushes. Tony circles around to the back where #71 is, parks. 

Something’s off. 

He grabs the handgun out of his glove compartment, checks that it’s loaded, and races up the stairs. 

His nerves spike when he sees the door cracked, front window open. Misha knows better than to keep the front window open. 

Tony steels himself, one deep breath, and kicks open the apartment door. 

The living room is completely turned over, couch ripped up, pillow fluff spread across the floor. End table kicked over. TV smashed. 

“Misha?” he shouts, gun still drawn. “Misha, are you here?” 

Tony creeps into the kitchen, keeps his back to the wall, eyes scanning corners and shadows as fast as he can. He spots Misha’s phone, the one he gave him, shattered on the tile floor. Fuck. 

This isn’t right. None of this is right. 

“T-Tony?”

He rushes for the voice, knowing it’s not Misha but so desperately hoping. He finds Jo, curled up in the corner of the dining room, cowering behind the knocked over table. “Are you alone?”

Jo nods.

Tony lowers his gun, kneels to get a better look at him. “Who did this?” He tilts Jo’s head side to side, cataloging the bruises blooming along his cheekbone and across the bridge of his nose. 

“It was...the Habs have Misha. I don’t know why they took him. I tried to stop them, but.” He touches his eye gingerly, winces. “There was too many of them.”

“Why did they leave you?” Tony asks.

“T-to deliver a message.” Jo shudders, it comes off as dramatic. “They said it had to be the Kingpin who came for him.”

Tony’s gut is screaming at him right now. Jo’s story has already contradicted itself. This has to be a trap, but he can’t--

“They’re going to kill him,” Jo says quietly. “Said he’s dead if no one comes.”

“Go see someone about your eye,” Tony says, turning and leaving without another word. 

//

“I have to go get him,” Tony says, walking past Stammer and straight into the vault. 

“Who?”

“Misha, the Habs took Misha, and I have to get him back.”

“I thought he was your big fuckup and you wanted to be a capo again?” Tony shoots him a look, he raises his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, it seems like this solves your problem.”

“I was wrong, and it will be my fault if something happens to him. I sent him away, so I have to get him back.”

“Maybe you need to think about this logically,” Stammer says. “Think about _us_. What will we do without a leader if something happens to you?"

Tony stops gathering ammo to fix Stammer with a look. "What about _me_? What will happen to me if I let something happen to him?"

“I can't believe it, little Rocco Stoneheart is in love.” He smiles, looking smug. “I’ll make a call.”

“I don’t need a babysitter for this.”

“You absolutely do,” he says, already texting someone. 

“I’m the boss and I say I’m doing this solo.”

Stammer doesn't look up from his phone, continuing to type as he says, “Yeah, that’s not gonna fly. I’d prefer you take two people but we’ll compromise at one. Meet in the middle.”

Tony grits his teeth. “ _Fine_.”

“Great, Bray will be here in a minute.”

“No,” Tony says, adamant. “Absolutely not. Anyone but him.”

“Too late. He’s going to fly the jet. You need him.”

“We have an actual pilot on the payroll.”

Stammer flaps his hand. “This is an emergency, we work internal when it’s an emergency.”

Tony can’t argue with the rulebook. Instead, he goes back to the vault for more ammo. 

The panicked flutter of his stomach intensifies as he tosses a variety of handguns and their matching bullets into a duffel. He tries to swallow around it, keep it below the surface. He can’t show fear like this. He can’t _be_ like this if he’s going to get Misha out of there. 

He pulls his favorite machine gun off the wall and slings the strap over his shoulder.

“You’re not bringing all of that,” Bray says, leaning against the entrance to the vault. 

Tony thinks he can see Alex’s stupid fucking hair loaf floating in the background behind him. Stammer might still be here too, but he doesn’t have time to linger on the thought. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Tony grabs a couple clips for the gun.

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Tony pulls down two semi-automatics, one in each hand. “They _took him_.”

“Okay Rambo,” he says, stepping into the vault. “Take a deep breath and think about what you’re walking into for a second. Think about who you’re dealing with.” 

Tony breathes and he thinks. And then he straps a few more guns to his body - one in his thigh holster and another to his ankle. “I want them to see me coming. I want them to know who’s going to make them pay for what they did.”

“You’re letting your emotions get the better of you.”

Tony has had enough of Brayden and his pacifist fucking ways. “I can’t lose him like you lost Brett!”

The vault falls silent. A fricking pin could drop and everyone would hear it.

Bray's face goes from laid back and long suffering to heartbreakingly angry.

"I know you're panicking. I know you are anxious and terrified. But if you ever use Brett's name like that in my presence again, I will break every bone in your face."

“I’d like to see you fucking try!” Alex steps between them before Tony gets his hands on Bray. Stammer apparently is still here, because he appears behind Alex, firm hand pressing on Tony’s chest, corralling him towards the far wall while Alex pulls Bray out and away. 

“You need to knock this shit off, Bray isn’t the enemy here.”

Tony deflates. He's not too proud to know when he crossed a line. “Yeah, I know, you’re right. I’m just...I’ll fix it.”

Tony finishes packing his duffel. He puts back a lot of stuff, but if anyone else asked, he’s still bringing about eight guns too many. He heads to Bray’s locker, not announcing himself when he arrives. 

“You can’t go into this all pissed off, Bray,” Alex is saying. 

“Well he doesn’t have any fucking right to be like that,” Bray shoots back, throwing things into a bag. 

Alex grabs him 

“Alex, stop.” He tries to shrug Alex off and go back to packing, but doesn’t let him. He holds on, whispering words that Tony can’t hear until Bray stops fighting. 

“Listen to me. You have to keep your head here. Tony probably won’t because he’s worried about the person he loves, so one of you has to.” He tucks Bray’s hair behind one ear. “But I’ll be here worried about the person I love too.”

“Alex...” Bray whimpers quietly. 

“No, you have to hear it, because I need you to come back.” He presses a kiss to Bray’s forehead. “I'll be here waiting for you to come back."

Alex pulls him in and their kiss is so deep, so passionate that Tony feels bad that he’s here to see this intensely private moment.

And he wants nothing more than the chance to kiss Misha like that, but he won’t get to if they don’t _get their asses in gear_ and go get him. 

Tony clears his throat and they jump apart. Bray gathers his things and starts for the door, but Alex stops him with a hand to his elbow.

“Bring everyone home safe, okay? Especially you.”

“I will,” Bray answers quietly. “Promise.” He pushes past Tony, who nods at Alex before following after him.

The only sounds are the tap of their shoes on the stairs and straight out the front door. The quiet is unnatural for too long though and Tony decides he has to say something, anything to break the silence.

“So, that’s a thing, then?” He tries for conversational as he pops the trunk.

“Shut up, you’re still in trouble,” Bray replies. “And you have too many guns.” 

Tony almost smiles because this is at least familiar. “There’s no such thing.” Tony drops his bag and heaves a big sigh. “I’m sorry, I was out of line, it’s just, the last thing I ever said to him was terrible, he thinks that I want him dead, and now he was taken and if something happens to him,” Tony's voice breaks and he looks down at his feet.

Bray looks at him for a minute. Maybe two. It feels eternal. “This all makes sense now. You’re a fucking fool.”

“I know.” Tony slams the trunk, stares down at it. He sighs. “I just hope I’m not too late.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the tags, lovelies.

Misha is buckled into a chair the next time he wakes up. The room is dark, lit by only one hanging bulb, and there’s no doubt where he is.

“I tried to tell Shea that you wouldn’t be any good for this mission.” Misha blinks over to the corner the voice came from.

“Brendan Gallagher. I should have known this was what you do here.”

“Why?” He steps into the light. He’s smirking. It’s annoying.

“Because no one else seemed obnoxious enough.”

His face goes flat. “I’m going to make you regret that you ever even _heard_ of the Habs if you don’t tell us what we want to know.”

“Too late, I already do.”

His features tighten; it makes him look exactly like a weasel. “Tell me who’s really the kingpin of the Bolts.”

“Steven Stamkos.”

“That’s. A. Lie,” he says, punctuating each word with a punch to Misha’s face. He feels his bottom lip split on the last hit.

He spits blood out of his mouth. Just misses Brendan’s feet. Pity. “It’s what they told me.”

“Last time I’m asking with words,” Brendan says. Misha shrugs best he can and Brendan just sighs. “You brought this on yourself.”

He lands another hit. And another. Another. He works both hands, using Misha’s cheeks and chin and nose as a punching bag. Eventually one catches his temple just right and he mercifully blacks out.

//

Something is dabbing at his temple. He jumps, tries to pull away. 

“Hey, you’re okay. I won’t hurt you,” a soft voice says. Misha blinks a couple of times, trying to clear his vision. He finally manages to focus, his eyes fall on soft feathered hair. And wide, blue eyes that have a glint of kindness. Misha is wary, though, because, well, maybe it’s better late than never, but Misha’s learned he can’t trust anyone. 

He smiles, and it softens the severity of his jaw. “I’m Matt.”

“Are you the good cop?” Misha asks. “Cuz that won’t work either.”

Matt laughs. “No, I’m just the nurse.”

“Oh.”

“Now, be still so I can clean this up.” Matt’s tongue pokes out a bit while he works. He’s gentle, which doesn’t really seem like any of the other Habs, but Misha is pretty sure it’s a trick. He finishes in short order. “Stay strong, okay?” 

Misha would raise his eyebrows if his face wasn’t so swollen.

“I’m sorry, but I have to send Brendan back in now.”

“I understand.” Misha does his best to steel himself as Matt walks out of the room. 

“Ready to tell me who the kingpin is?”

“I’m ready to tell you to fuck right off.” Misha puts everything he has into the smile he forces.

“Was hoping you’d say that.” Brendan sneers in return. He produces a knife from somewhere behind him, cuts Misha’s shirt from top to bottom.

“Yeah, I didn’t think that you could rip it by hand,” Misha snarks, earning himself a backhand.

“Shut up, I don’t wanna hear anything from you, except--what is _that_?” He uses the blade to point at the gauze sitting just below Misha’s collar bone.

Misha tips his head, doesn’t say anything. He was just told not to speak, so.

Brendan crumbles the gauze and rips it off. An involuntary hiss escapes Misha when he roughly wipes the Vaseline underneath away with his thumb.

“You went and got a mark? Couldn’t wait for us, you fucking traitor?” 

“You assholes were never going to mark me. You sent me off expecting me to fail.”

“But you didn’t, did you? You worked it out and he marked you as his own.” Brendan pauses, purses his lips. “Whose mark is that, though?” he asks himself. His eyes shift back to Misha’s face. “Guess you aren’t going to tell me, huh?”

“No.”

“Didn’t expect so,” Brendan says with a dramatic sigh. He pulls out his phone, heading for the door. “Hey, Shea? We have a development.”

The door closes behind him, leaving Misha alone. 

//

Brendan returns pushing a cart filled to the brim with all sorts of what Misha assumes are tools of his trade. Heh, a tool pushing tools. 

“Guess who got the all-clear to do whatever it takes,” he sing-songs gleefully while he fires up a mini blowtorch.

“It doesn’t matter, I’m never going to tell you.” His word might not mean anything to Tony, but it’s all he has and he meant every single one he said to him.

“Do you know what this is?” Brendan asks, pulling out a fire iron. 

“Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“I guess I did before, but maybe you aren’t after all.” He makes a big show of using the blowtorch to heat the flat end until it’s glowing red. “I mean, you’re still worth almost nothing to us, but that-” He gestures vaguely with the iron towards Misha’s mark. “That is worth something, now isn’t it?”

“It really isn’t,” Misha replies.

Brendan hums. “We’ll see.” 

He goes to work setting up some homemade torture contraption that Misha is pretty sure he built himself. He's also pretty sure that Brendan really enjoys this part of his job. He looks up with a shit-eating grin when he slides the iron into place, just shy of the tattoo. 

“Now, we all know what Steven Stamkos’ mark looks like, with that ugly three-pronged lightning bolt, and this definitely isn’t that.” He stops, strokes the peach fuzz on his jaw, looks like a fucking idiot. “None of the Bolts marks I know look like this, but it’s someone important enough to have their own.”

“How do you know I didn’t get to make up my own?” Misha tries, gets a punch across his cheek for his effort.

“Because you obviously don’t know shit about how this all works, a no one like you wouldn’t get to make his own mark.”

“I’m more someone than Jo is,” Misha counters. He knows he should shut up, and it isn’t true anymore, but fuck all of these guys and their shitty ways.

“Just shut the fuck up unless you’re going to tell me who the mark came from.” Misha pushes his lips together defiantly, grits his teeth against the next hit to the bridge of his nose. As if that’s going to make him talk.

He loses count of the hits until finally Brendan stops and sighs. “I’m getting nowhere here,” he says, and it’s the first thing he’s said that isn’t total bullshit. He pulls out his phone, hits a speed dial as he turns his back to Misha. 

“Shea, yeah, it’s me again. We aren’t getting anywhere, I can’t believe he won’t say anyth- Yeah, uh-huh.” He nods a few times. “Okay, yeah, I’ll take a few pictures of it and get rid of it, uh-huh, it’s ready because I was threatening him with--”

Misha realizes in a panic that they’re going to take pictures of Tony’s mark and then take it from him. Well, they can’t have it. He can’t offer much of anything to Tony, he learned that when he confessed.

But he can do this one little thing to protect him.

He has made a lot of wrong decisions since he arrived at the Habs Headquarters, but this is the right one, and he knows it with all of his worthless, unwanted little heart.

Misha leans his shoulder almost all the way up to the iron, lines up the mark. He can feel the heat radiating off of it while he takes a couple of breaths to get himself ready. “I'm sorry,” he mutters to the mark, swollen lip making him slur the words. “I’m sorry that I almost exposed you, and I’m sorry that I’m not good enough, but I won’t let them have this.” He looks at the mark for a second, tries to memorize the lines and curves of the gold-lined wings wrapped around the small bolt embossed shield. “I love you,” he says before throwing his shoulder forward.

An involuntary scream escapes him, but he’s unconscious before Brendan even gets back to him.

// 

Matt is tending to him again when he comes to. 

“Why would you do this?” Matt asks softly, applying some sort of salve to Misha’s shoulder. It’s cool and soothing, but it isn’t enough to slow the tears still rolling down his face. 

“I-I had to protect him,” Misha stutters out. “He’s more important than anything.”

A look that Misha can’t quite parse dances across his face. “You’re a good man. Any mob would be proud to call you their own.”

Misha sobs out a little laugh, because Matt couldn’t be more wrong if he was trying for it. 

“Hey, look, I’m sorry, but it’s about to be really bad for you. I heard who they’re sending and, well. They’re definitely pissed at you.”

“Let them come.” He has nothing left to lose. 

“Good luck, man,” Matt says, taping gauze into place on his collar. 

“Yeah, thanks.”

Two of the biggest guys he’s ever seen, bigger than Braydon or Victor even, come into the room as Matt leaves. They’re cracking their knuckles in a menacing manner, and Misha can’t believe that’s really something that people do. 

They go to work on him efficiently, methodically even. Blow after unrelenting blow. It hurts so fucking much, but it isn’t Tony threatening to kill him, so _fuck_ them if they think this is the most pain he’s felt today. 

He doesn’t have any way to track time, but it goes on for ages. 

It occurs to Misha that he’s going to die here, down in this dirty basement. That he’s giving his life for Tony after all. 

And Tony is never going to know, but that’s okay. Because he’s safe in Tampa, surrounded by his family and they’ll take care of him. Which is just how it should be. 

“God, I am fucking sick of hitting this stupid little fucker,” Goon One says. 

“Just take care of him then,” Goon Two replies.

They both grin and turn to Misha. He looks up at them with every bit of defiance he has in him.

As his vision starts to go, the spotty blackness creeping in from every side, he wonders if this is going to be the last time.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end if you're concerned about the new tag

Julien runs the hangar. He’s relatively new, but he’s good. He's got the plane gassed up and ready to go when they get there. 

Tony drops his bag of guns into a seat and settles in, closing his eyes to focus on the job ahead. What he’s going to do when he’s faced with the wrath of the Habs. What the Habs are going to do when they see the full wrath of him. 

“I’ll let you know when we’re making our decent,” Bray says, before locking himself in the cockpit. 

//

There’s a car waiting for them when they land and Bray nearly slaps the keys out of Tony’s hands. “Yeah right, get in the passenger seat.”

He asks if they have a plan going into this and Tony grinds his teeth. “I’d suggest not going to the front door, guns blazing.”

“Thank you Capo Obvious.”

Bray turns up the radio then, letting Tony stew in peace. 

It isn’t far to where their source directed them and they park the car around the corner from the Habs’ house to wait for full darkness. 

“They’re going to be expecting us,” Bray says, trying again. 

“No, they won’t.”

Bray screws up his face in disbelief. “They literally left a message saying to come get him.”

“For _the kingpin_ to come get him,” Tony corrects, checking his gun and slipping it back into the holster on his thigh. “They won’t be expecting us. You ready?”

He doesn’t wait for Bray’s reply before getting out of the car. 

“It’s not even dark yet!”

“It’s dark enough!” Tony snaps from the trunk.

“I swear to god if you get yourself killed, I’ll never forgive you.” 

“Guess you’ll have to do your fucking job then,” Tony says, tossing Bray one of the handguns. He clips a belt of extra ammo around his waist and waits for Bray to do the same before snapping the trunk closed. 

They spot an open sliding door on the second floor balcony of the Habs' old world mansion. Tony hoists Bray up there before parkouring himself up. 

“Showoff,” Bray hisses when he lands without a sound. 

The room is thankfully empty and they head out to the hall to begin their search for Misha, Tony in the lead. 

They come face-to-face with a guy before they make it more than a handful of feet, but Bray gets the jump on him, throws a few punches and quickly gets him into a chokehold. Tony cocks his gun and holds it to his forehead. “You yell and I shoot you. Where is he?”

The guy tilts his head toward the stairs. 

“Use your words.”

Bray presses his thumb into a pressure point, the guy grimaces in pain. 

“Where. Is. He.” 

“Basement,” he gasps.

Bray puts him to sleep, laying him gently on the floor. 

They take the stairs to the first floor and find it empty until the door next to them opens and they’re forced to hide. It’s that Gallahger asshole and he’s wiping his hands off, looking smug. He walks right past the shadows where they’re hiding and once they’re in the clear, they enter the basement.

Tony’s breath catches. Misha is tied to a chair in the middle of the room, a single harsh lightbulb illuminating all the places he’s broken. He’s slumped over and not moving. “No.” Tony says under his breath, sprinting across the room. He drops to his knees, sliding to a stop in front of him. “No. Misha, no,” he repeats, cupping his face and tipping it up. 

They’re too late, he’s too late.

“Misha, you can’t be, I can’t…” He presses his forehead to Misha’s. Fear is irrational, he’s heard it his whole life. He isn’t supposed to fear anything, not in the mob, not as a kingpin, but he feared this. He was terrified of one thing and he’s too _late_. “Please.”

Misha stays still, unmoving. Tony’s hand drops to his shoulder, thumb barely tracing the edge of where his skin is most broken, seared bright pink. A fresh burn right under his collarbone. 

His mark.

Tony is sick with fury. He flies straight past anger and despair, beyond the unbearable heartbreak. His heart goes dark with wrath and all he can think about is the way their necks will snap under the strength of his hands, how easily a bullet will stop their hearts. He’ll tie them all to chairs and take their marks the way they took Misha’s. Every single one of these fuckers are going to _pay_. They will all know--

Misha takes a deep, shuddering breath and his eyes flutter open.

“Misha, holy shit, you’re alive?” Unimaginable relief sparks through him, lighting him up. He’s blinded by it for a moment, almost unbelieving. But yes. Yes, Misha _is_ alive. He’s alive and breathing and... “Oh, God, Misha.” his voice shudders, overwhelmed. 

“Tony?” Misha starts shaking. “No, this isn’t real. You don’t call me that anymore.”

“No, Misha. I’m here, I am, I’m sorry. I just--”

“Maybe I’m dead now and you’re my angel. Come to take me to the next part, yeah?” He tries to smile, winces. “Dunno what I did to deserve seeing you.”

“We have to get you out of here, Misha.”

“I never said how I feel, that I love you.” Misha chokes on a sigh. “You were right there all that time, and I just.” He drops his head again, whispers, "Maybe you would have believed me if I'd told you."

“Misha,” Tony says his name softly, like a caress. He leans in, touches their foreheads together again. Misha sobs. 

"God, I swear I can really feel you here."

“I _am_ here.”

“We’ve got company,” Bray says, looking towards the door the door. “Tony.”

“Can you stand?” Tony asks Misha. Tony shakes him a bit. “Hey, Misha, look at me. Can you stand?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Tony scrambles to unbuckle him.

“Then get behind that table and stay down. I’ll take care of this.” Misha stumbles a couple of times on the way, but he makes to to the table. 

Two Habs Tony doesn’t recognize come in. He knows that they’re not coming to check on him. No, they’re coming back with the intention to hurt him some more. 

And no they may not. Tony is good, so far as a mafia guy can be, but there's limits, and the Habs have just found one.

He turns towards them, thumbing free the holster on his thigh effortlessly, hardly has it all the way out before shoots them both in the face without a single word. They don’t deserve a warning. How fucking _dare_ they do this to Misha? Misha, who is better than any of them.

“Could you have fucking warned me?” Bray shouts as the bodies hit the ground.

“Warning you would have been warning them.” Tony shrugs, replacing his gun.

“Jesus, Rocco.”

Tony doesn't have time to listen to Bray complain about his methods. His hurt feelings aren’t the most important thing here.

"Misha, hey.” Tony squats down next to him. “We're going to get you out of here, alright?"

He tries to smile; it looks more like a grimace. "Whatever you say, imaginary Tony."Tony sighs, nods at Bray to help.They each get a hand under a shoulder and head for the stairs.

The path back out almost seems too clear, and sure enough three goons appear in front of them like a video game right before they make it to the front door.

“Hold him,” Tony says. He gives Bray a second to accept the weight before he adds, “I’m going to take care of them, since you need warning.” He smirks at the sneer Bray gives him and draws his gun. 

Punching the first guy feels good, but putting the handle of his gun across the second guy’s face feels even better. The third guy pulls his own gun and points it at Misha and Bray, so he just shoots that fucker.

“Thanks,” Bray mutters.

Tony nods. “Okay, let’s go.”

There’s one last person waiting for them. Right by the front door, hands up, not a gun in sight. 

“Matt Peca. I haven’t seen you in ages,” Bray says.

“Please take me with you,” he begs. “Please.”

“Why should I take you back?” Tony asks. 

His eyes go wide with realization as he turns towards Tony. He tips his head in deference. “I serve the House.”

Tony considers him. “Prove it.”

Matt rolls up his sleeve, exposing his bicep. He licks his thumb and rubs at his skin until a tiny black lightning bolt shows. “I swear my loyalty to you on my life.”

He feels legit, and if there’s anything that Tony’s learned from this whole fucking mess, it’s that he should trust his gut. “Alright. Let’s go.” 

They dart out of the house and around the corner to the car. He cradles Misha in his lap in the back seat while Bray and Matt jump into the front.

A couple Habs rush out of the house right when Bray guns it, burning rubber and fishtailing the car out of its spot. The assholes shoot wildly at them as they pass. Tony hears a couple bullets hit the frame and one cracks the back window, but every Bolts car has had bulletproofing since before he took over. They've made it.

Oh, shit. They made it.

//

Even with Bray taking time to make sure they aren’t followed, they make it back to the airport quickly. Bray and Tony pull Misha onto the plane together while Matt covers their rear. They try and get him settled while Matt closes the plane up.

Misha’s still pretty out of it, eyes drooping closed and head bowed. He isn’t sitting up under his own power, but they have to get out of here. “C’mon, let’s get you buckled in,” Tony says, mostly to himself. 

Matt joins them, tries to help, but they can’t get him securely into a seat, his body it just too limp. Tony pushes the hair off Misha’s forehead, tries to get him to focus. 

“Look at me. Misha. Look at me.” He tries, Tony really thinks he tries -- even now trying to prove that he takes orders from Tony, but it’s like he used the last of his energy when he scrambled for cover. Tony brushes his thumb along the bruising settling into his skin, over his cheekbone and down his nose. The various cuts scattered across his face. Some of this is going to scar. 

He’s no longer unmarked and it’s Tony’s fault.

“There’s a first aid kit by the cockpit,” he says in Matt’s general direction. “Will you get me something to clean him up with. I need to clean his face.” His voice edges toward desperate, but he needs to do this. He needs to start to fix this. 

“You ready?” Bray says, startling Tony. “Or are we just going to sit on the tarmac until he will stay upright in the seat?”

“No, here, let me…” Tony sits on the floor of the plane, letting Misha slip into his lap. He presses his palm flat against Misha’s chest and takes the wet wipes from Matt. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, wiping at Misha’s upper lip where most of the blood has dried. “I should have listened to what you were trying to tell me.” Tony cups his jaw. “I’m going to make it up to you, keep you safe from now on.”

“Holy shit, you really are gone on him.” 

Fuck. Tony had forgotten that Bray and Matt are still here. “Just get the plane in the air. Jesus!” he snaps, grabbing for another wipe without looking up.

“Alright cranky.” 

The plane is quiet as Bray taxis to the runway. Matt gets a blanket out of the same cabinet he found the first aid kit in and offers it to Tony. 

He lays it over Misha, keeping his hand on his chest. Safe. 

Misha sighs. “‘Course ‘m safe. I’m in your arms.” He turns his face into Tony’s palm. “‘M always safe here.”

Tony cycles through a rush of emotions. Kind of feels like he wants to cry. If he did that kind of thing. 

“I’m sorry,” Misha says. “I wouldn’t, not ever, not about you.” He’s delirious still, eyes slipping shut. “I just, I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “Please don’t...make me leave.”

Bray throttles up, engines filling up the space with noise. 

"I'm here. I'm here. I'm right here," Tony assures. "We're in the plane. No one else is going to hurt you. You're safe." 

Misha relaxes, finally drifts off as the wheels leave the tarmac. Tony holds him, tries to clean around his eyes and the cut above his brow. 

Once they reach cruising altitude, Bray comes back out. “How’s he doing?”

Tony brushes his fingers through Misha’s hair. “He just fell asleep. I think...he’s going to be okay. He’s going to be fine.” He _has_ to be.

“Good.” Bray lays a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “You should get some rest, too. You had a big day.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay, Rocco.” Bray sighs, heads back toward the cockpit. “We’ll be home in three hours.”

Misha shifts, sinks lower into Tony’s lap. Tony tucks the blanket up over his shoulders.

“So, uh, when did this happen?” Matt asks. “When I left you were still a capo. The whole system thinks you’re still a capo.”

“It hasn’t been long,” he says. “But I knew it was coming. It was only a matter of time.”

He whistles low, impressed. “I think you just made a real big splash.”

“Good,” Tony snaps. “Let them see.” 

“Thanks for taking me back.”

Tony looks away from Misha for the first time. “Thank you for staying loyal. I’m sure it must have been hard.”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Easiest thing in the world.”

Misha stirs, whimpering and reaching out his hand. Tony grabs it, holds it tightly as Misha whines. “I won’t,” he says, arches his back. “No, I won’t.”

“Hey.” Tony holds Misha’s chin with his other hand, holds his head still. “Misha, hey. Wake up, it’s just a dream.”

“I’m sorry. _I’m sorry_.”

“It’s okay, I’m here. You’re safe. Just wake up.” 

His eyes fly open and he gasps, fingers tightening around Tony’s. 

“It’s just me,” he says. “Misha, it’s just me. You’re safe.”

“Tony?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re real.”

“Been here the whole time.” He brushes at Misha’s hair, keeps his other hand wrapped tightly around Misha’s own. 

“Y-you came for me?”

Tony’s heart cracks at the wobble in Misha’s voice. “Never should have let you go.”

“I’ll leave you guys alone, then.” 

Misha startles when Matt speaks, looking over at him with wide eyes. “What is he doing...are you sure that I’m not…” Misha trails off, glancing downward, looking confused. “Oh, wait. Was he an undercover guy?”

That is close enough to the truth for now. “Yes, he was.”

“Yeah, see?” Matt shows off his tattoo again. It reminds Tony that Misha’s was taken away, ruined. He takes his first good look at the angry, red blotch where his mark used to be.

“I’m sorry about this too,” Tony says quietly, circling it, giving it a wide berth.

“No, it’s okay.” Misha shakes his head just a bit and his face falls. Tony wonders what he’s thought of. He can barely hear Misha over the roar of the plane when he speaks again, “You don’t want me anymore, so it works out, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll just be in the back of the plane,” Matt says before he scurries away.

“Hey, you think that I’d do this for someone that I didn’t want?” Tony plays with one of Misha’s messy curls, twirls it around a finger.

“I dunno,” Misha averts his eyes, shrugs his good shoulder.

“The answer is no.” Tony runs his knuckles down Misha’s jawline. “But we can talk about all of that later.” 

Misha seems to notice his surroundings for the first time. “Where are we going?”

Tony smiles, barely an upturn to his lips. “Home.”

“Wake me when we get there if I fall asleep again?” He settles back against Tony, yawns.

“You bet.”

He doesn’t stop caressing every inch of Misha he can reach, not even when he drifts back off. He wants to say he isn’t sure who it soothes more.

But he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony kills a few unnamed Habs


	15. Chapter 15

“How did they get you? Tony asks Misha softly, tucking him into his bed back at the house. He watches Misha settle in, thinking this is right where he belongs. “I know you’re tired but I need to know if there’s a weak link. I need to get rid of it.”

“It’s Jo. He let in Shea because he’s a Hab,” Misha says faintly. He hums when Tony brushes the hair back from his face. “Still can’t believe you came for me.” 

“Can’t believe I made you doubt that I would,” Tony replies. He presses a gentle kiss next to a split through his eyebrow. “Sleep now, I’ll be back soon.”

“You’re leaving again?” Misha asks. He sounds a little panicky.

“Just this one last thing,” he consoles. “I have to take care of Jo. I’ll be back before you know it. I promise.”

“Will you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Go easy on him?” Misha asks quietly.

Tony puffs up, blinding anger rushing into his lungs. “He doesn’t deserve to have--”

“But what if they’re making him just like they were making me?”

Tony is pretty sure that isn’t the case, but he breathes through the red. He can do this for Misha. 

“Alright, I’ll send him back in one piece.”

“‘Kay.” Misha settles back down, pulling the covers up. “Always loved how your bed smells like you.”

“Our bed,” Tony corrects him, because it’s true. Misha hasn’t slept anywhere else since their first night together. He’s made sure of it.

“Our bed,” he echoes on a sigh as Tony reluctantly leaves. 

He sends out a text about an emergency meeting, heading straight downstairs. Everyone can be here within the hour, so at least he won’t have to spend too long pacing in the vault. 

//

“Okay, listen up,” Tony says, calling the meeting to order without any fanfare. “Jo is a spy and he’s the reason that the Habs got in to take Misha.”

“A spy?!” Stammer shouts. 

“Let’s hang him by his fuckin balls,” Victor says darkly, almost angry. Most of the guys rumble in agreement.

“Maybe not his balls?” Bray scrunches his nose in distaste. Tony snorts.

“I was thinking that we should send him back.” He isn’t going to say that it’s at Misha’s request, he knows they won’t take well to that. Everyone is yelling various objections over one another as it is. He has to hold up a hand to calm them. “No, guys. Listen. I took Peca back, so we should send them Jo as payment to make it all square.”

“I still don’t know if I like the idea, Rocco,” Stammer frowns. “After all, he might tell them-”

“What? That we never trusted him and he never got to do anything?” Victor interrupts. Tony is glad to have someone on his side.

“How’d you get Peca back?” Alex asks. 

“It wasn’t hard,” Bray replies for him.

“Yeah, that place must have been a shithole,” Tony agrees. The group laughs, tension broken.

The rest of the decisions are easy from there.

//

Tony pauses in front of the door to Jo’s apartment. He isn’t worried about Jo - it isn’t like he’s a threat - it’s just that they're probably only going to have one chance to get this right. And Misha deserves this done right.

He takes a second to straighten his cuffs and smooth his hair before he knocks on the door.

“Tony? Hi?” Jo squints at him in confusion. His black eye already looks better. He wonders for a second if Shea was the one who punched him for effect before dismissing it as inconsequential.

“So, Stralsy took care of that for you, I see,” Tony says in greeting.

“Uh, yeah.” Jo pulls his door open a bit. “Do you want to come in?”

No, Tony would not. Tony would like to punch this fucker in his other eye and kick him in the face until he apologizes for the way he tried to ruin Misha. But that isn’t really on the table right this second.

“I just wanted to update you on the Misha situation,” he starts conversationally. Jo definitely tenses even though he’s trying to play it cool.

“Oh, did the kingpin go after him?”

“Yeah.” Tony shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels. 

“When do you think he will he be back?”

“He’s already back,” Tony replies with a small nod.

“He’s...what?” Jo stands up straight, his eyes wide.

“You don’t think our kingpin is good enough to get in and out of a situation?”

“It isn’t that, it’s just...it hasn’t been that long.”

“He’s pretty decent.” Tony shrugs, pulls out a hand and thumbs over his shoulder. “Anyway, he wants to see you at the house.”

“Why me? Why now?” Now Jo seems wound tight, looks like he’s ready to snap at any second.

Good.

Tony shrugs again. “Dunno. Said it’s important, though.”

“I’ll get my phone and keys.”

“I’ll wait here,” Tony replies with the fakest smile he can muster as Jo disappears into the hallway.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Jo reappears. Tony's eyes catch on Jo's hair. 

He can’t decide if it’s just annoyance or if it looks really stupid. “When’d you decide to grow your hair out?” he asks conversationally.

“Didn’t really decide, just haven’t gotten it cut lately.” He waves the conversation away. “Are we ready, or?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Let’s go.”

The short ride back to the house is tense. Tony knows that it isn't just him, though, because Jo is pretending so hard at being relaxed that he’s pretty much one step away from having his feet up on the dash.

Tony squeezes the steering wheel. He’s furious that Jo was able to be this deep for so long that he can pretend that he feels comfortable right now.

“So, the kingpin really got Misha back?” There’s the smallest hitch in his voice that gives away his fake ease. 

“Sure did,” Tony answers. He looks over his shoulder and signals to change lanes.

“Did he talk to anyone while he was there?”

“You’ll have to ask, I guess.” They fall quiet as Tony turns onto their street, and it's dead silent by the time he pulls into the driveway and puts the car in park.

Jo bolts before he can even push the button to turn off the car. “Son of a fucking bitch,” Tony hisses under his breath, hopping out.

He's already at the property line. Tony is sure he’s going to get away, but Victor steps out from behind the privacy hedge and clotheslines Jo, who almost does a three-sixty in the air because of his momentum.

It’s actually pretty comical, but Tony still isn’t in a laughing mood.

“Into the house with you,” Victor growls, picking Jo up by his scruff and half-dragging him towards the front door. “Can’t be late for your meeting.”

Tony watches Victor cart him into the house, takes a minute to gather his thoughts, then closes the car door and follows after them.

Tony stands outside the meeting room, listening to the murmuring of the group talking on the other side of the door. He tries to center himself, to prepare for what he has to say and do here. 

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and pulls himself up to his full height. Leaving Tony the capo behind, Anthony Cirelli the Kingpin replacing him. He throws the door open and walks in. 

Everyone falls silent and defers to him, except for Jo, who is still bitching and moaning from the chair that he’s tied to. He’s looking at Victor, oblivious to the room. It’s part of the reason that he was never promoted. He’s shit at reading a room. 

“Jonathan.”

Jo finally falls silent, looks over with wide eyes. “You’re shitting me.”

“You could have been amazing here.”

Jo looks at Stammer. “ _Tony_ is the fucking kingpin over _you_?” He laughs wildly. “How is this real life?”

“Show Anthony the respect a kingpin deserves, you asshole,” Stammer spits at him. 

“But you don’t care about family,” Tony continues calmly like they didn’t say anything. “So you’re going back to the Habs.”

“You are not my family!” Jo shouts at him. “ _They_ are my family and they will give me the mark I deserve when I get back.”

“You’re lucky you don’t have one of our marks, or I would take it from you the same way that Misha’s was taken.”

Jo spits at the floor by his feet. “That’s what I think about your mark,” he sneers.

Tony sees red, shoves Jo right over, chair and all. 

“Ow, what the fuck?” Jo demands after his head bounces off the floor. 

Tony’s reply is to kick Jo in the face as hard as he can. The sensation of his nose cracking under Tony’s foot is honestly the second best feeling he’s had today. He gets down on one knee, leans in close to Jo. He takes in the blood streaming down his face and smiles darkly. “That’s for Misha, you mother _fucker_.”

He stands up, brushing the wrinkles out of his pants and straightening his cuffs. “Tape him to that chair so he can’t even move,” Tony orders, brushing an escaped curl out of his eyes. “I have a letter to write. 

“Will do, boss,” Victor replies, reaching for a roll of tape and going to work.

Tony grabs some paper and scribbles a note. He makes sure it’s clear they’re returning Jo as a token of goodwill, that he let them off easily, only taking Misha and leaving. That they better not fuck with the Bolts again or it will be the last time they do anything as a mob.

He signs it with a flourish and slides it into an envelope before turning back to the room at large. 

“How’s he look?” Victor asks. 

“Almost perfect.” He tapes the letter to Jo’s chest.

He takes another strip of tape and leans back in to whisper in Jo’s ear, “You’re lucky this isn’t worse, because you deserve it. You’re only alive because of Misha’s mercy. Don’t you ever forget that for the rest of your miserable fucking life.” He slaps the tape over Jo’s mouth before he can respond. “Send that piece of shit freight.”

“You got it,” Stammer says while a couple of guys pick Jo up and carry him out of the room.

Tony starts for the door, pausing by it. “Dismissed.”


	16. Chapter 16

Misha stirs when Tony climbs into bed with him that night. His eyes are already on the bandage on Misha’s shoulder when his own flutter open. 

“I’m going to make one of them pay for this,” Tony says, tracing the edge of the gauze. “Which of them did this to you?”

“I did it,” Misha replies. He drops his eyes. “They were going to take pictures of it and try and work out whose it was and I couldn’t let them find you that way. It was the only thing I could do to protect you."

“W-what? Why? If you thought I disowned you, why did you do it?”

“You did disown me, Tony.” Misha sighs. “You told me the gun would be loaded if I ever came back.”

Tony pulls his hand back like he’s been burned. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said those things. I wasn’t thinking. I was.” Tony shakes his head. “I’m the worst leader.”

“No. You’re the best kind of leader.” He scoots up on his pillow. “You don’t have to throw your weight around to get people to follow you. You don't have to threaten or torture or hurt people to keep them in line. Everyone follows you because you’re Good.” Misha swallows, plays with the edge of the sheet. “And in this line of work, there aren't a lot of good guys, so, like, even though I’m so...so, uh, that I never deserved you, I wasn’t going to let them have that.”

“Misha, I don’t deserve _you_ , I overreacted.” Tony runs soft fingers up Misha’s jawline. “I almost ruined everything and don’t deserve you here, now, in this bed. I don’t deserve for you to take me back after what I did to you. What I let happen to you.”

Misha hums, leaning into Tony’s hand. “I don’t blame you. You were protecting your family.”

Tony places a gentle hand over the bandage where Misha’s mark used to be. “You’re my family. I should have protected you.”

Misha pulls Tony close, knocks their foreheads together. “If you want the blame, then I forgive you.”

Tony exhales, one sharp gust of breath against Misha’s cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut and Misha reaches up to brush at the corner of one. 

“Okay?”

“Yeah, I’m...you should sleep.” Tony presses a quick kiss to Misha’s forehead.

“That’s all I’ve done since you got me,” Misha complains even as he settles back into his pillow.

“Well, you still need more,” Tony says into his hairline. “Don’t complain to me, it’s Stralsy’s orders.”

“I’m going to have a talk with him. Tomorrow,” Misha mutters.

“You do that,” Tony says. 

Misha drifts off with the phantom press of Tony’s lips against his forehead, Tony’s arm slung tightly over his hip. Safe and sound.

//

Misha stirs, blinking open his eyes slowly. He can’t tell what time it is with the shades drawn and pale light glowing through the cracks of the curtains. It feels early. That moment before the sun wakes up the birds and burns off the dew that clings to the grass.

Tony has rolled over in the night, his back facing Misha now. He watches him breathe, selfishly cataloging the way his ribs expand and contract. He’s miraculously unbruised. Any marks he got rescuing Misha are gone. If he ever even had any. 

Misha scoots over, curves himself around Tony’s form. His skin is warm against Misha’s chest and his arm fits perfectly over Tony’s hip to hold him close. 

Tony shifts. “Misha?” he asks, voice sleepy.

He presses a kiss behind Tony’s ear. “Yeah.”

Tony hums, tugs Misha’s arm tighter around his waist. “Y’okay?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I’m good.”

“Mmk.”

Misha watches Tony’s eyes close, his lashes fanning out along his cheeks. He’s so in awe of this man, brave and strong and _harsh_. And yet, here in Misha’s arms, he gives up all his defenses. “I can’t believe I didn’t imagine it, that you really came after me.”

"I'll always come after you."

Misha thought Tony had fallen back to sleep and he flushes at his confession being heard. “I’m so sorry for what I said, when I was out of it,” he blurts. “I shouldn’t have. I…”

Tony turns over. “Don’t. Don’t do that.” 

Misha considers arguing further but then Tony is holding his cheek and brushing the world’s softest kiss against his lips and he can’t. He melts into Tony’s touch. This feels like love, he thinks. Despite the world they live in, the things they’ve done, the things they’ve survived…

Misha pulls back, holds Tony’s gaze. He licks his lips, the words he wants to say at the very tip of his tongue. “Tony, I lo--.”

Tony swallows them in a kiss. 

His hand anchors Misha, settling on the back of his neck and drawing him closer. Misha leans against him, chasing his lips when he tries to pull away. He’s desperate to keep Tony close, keep him here in this bed. Overwhelmed by the memory of almost losing him. “Please, Tony.”

“Hey,” he says, brushing Misha’s hair off his forehead. “It’s okay. I’m right here.” 

Leave it to him to read Misha’s mind. 

“What do you need?”

“You,” he blurts. “Please, just you.”

Tony presses a kiss to Misha’s forehead. “You’re still healing.”

“Then be gentle.”

Tony’s whole face softens when he catches Misha’s gaze. “Misha…”

“I won’t break,” he says, pressing Tony’s palm to the center of his chest, just shy of the scar. “Not in your hands.”

Tony rolls Misha onto his back, pins him with his hips and his hands and his lips. He holds him still as he maps a path along Misha’s jaw and down his neck. They’re delicate kisses but Tony makes them linger, each one sending a warm buzz to Misha’s head. 

He bares his throat for Tony, feels him lick at the hollow of it before his mouth dips down along his collarbone. Tony is careful with the scar, gentle with the kiss he places next to it. 

Misha clings to the sheets, balling them up in his fists. He so very much wishes there was a mark still there. Tony’s mark. 

“What’s wrong?”

He blinks, willing his eyes not to water. “Nothing, I promise. I’m okay.”

But Tony knows, of course he knows. He takes Misha’s lips, kisses him deeply until Misha’s not thinking of anything but him. “They can’t take me from you,” he whispers against Misha’s lips. “No matter what.”

Misha clings to him, digging his fingers into the muscles of his back. 

“Let me take care of you,” Tony says against Misha’s skin, slipping back down to his neck and across his chest. He takes one of Misha’s nipples into his mouth, holds him still with big hands around his ribs when his back arches off the bed. “Gorgeous.” 

Tony slips lower, settles by Misha’s hip. He mouths at it, little bites and kisses until Misha’s sure his skin is turning pink. 

“Can I take you apart?” Tony asks, flicking his eyes up to meet Misha’s. “And then put you back together?”

He groans. 

Tony leaves him, just for a moment, to find the bottle of lube they’ve been working through. Misha kicks off his shorts, making room for Tony between his thighs. Tony’s fingers are slick when he settles back on the bed, when they press against where Misha wants him most. 

Tony takes Misha into his mouth as he stretches him open. Misha gets hard for him immediately, his pleasure dancing on the tip of Tony’s tongue. For seconds, minutes, _hours_ he feels like he’s gasping for air, unable to fill his lungs fully while Tony readies him with his fingers. 

There’s no flames to the way their bodies work together, not this time. It’s a slow burn, like warm coals in a fireplace. 

Tony takes Misha on his side, sliding into him slowly. Misha almost wishes that they weren’t using protection, that he could have that intimate connection with Tony as he pulls him in, fingers digging into his thigh to keep him close. Kisses drop along Misha’s shoulders and neck, the knob of his spine, as Tony starts to take him apart. 

Misha reaches back for Tony’s hand, his mouth falling open in a sigh when Tony hits him just right. It’s almost too much when Tony bites at his ear, the join of his neck and shoulder, when he grinds in so deep with each roll of his hips. Way too much when he makes Misha look at him, tilts his chin just so. 

Misha’s never had someone care about him like this, to treat him with such kindness. To want to keep him close and hold him in their arms. To look at him the way Tony does. 

He brings Tony’s knuckles to his lips, trying to wordlessly make him understand how he’s feeling. How Tony’s making him feel. 

Their skin is sweaty everywhere they touch, the whole room hot and getting hotter as the morning sun rises. Tony seems unbothered, drawing Misha impossibly closer, tracing his fingers across his chest and stomach, encouraging him to rock back into every thrust. 

Every thrust that lights him up, makes him cry out, whine, groan, whimper, gasp…

“ _Tony_.”

He doesn’t relent, doesn’t stop picking every piece of him apart, not until there’s nothing left of him. Nothing left but the way he feels, the way Tony feels against him. Around him. 

“I’ll get you there,” Tony whispers. 

He folds his hand around Misha’s dick, moving just as slow and syrupy as his hips. It’s almost unbearable, the way the pleasure crests. The way Tony pulls it out him. 

Misha shakes, curls up, overwhelmed. And Tony holds him, holds all the pieces together. 

_Love_ , Misha thinks, _this can’t be anything other than love._

Tony doesn't say those words, but it's okay. Misha knows. 

He knows when Tony slips free and settles Misha on his back, when he kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until he finds release in the cut of his hip. He knows in the way Tony stays wrapped around him until their breathing slows before slipping away to the bathroom. 

Misha’s exhausted, eyes struggling to stay open even though he’s just had a full night’s sleep. He drifts while Tony tugs the top sheet out of the way and cleans him up. Tony slides back into bed when he’s done, fitting himself to the curves of Misha’s body like they’re a perfect match. 

“Should we get up?” he tries. 

“Not yet,” Tony says, his breath warm against the back of Misha’s neck. “Everything else can wait.”


	17. Chapter 17

The a/c hasn’t kicked on in hours, thanks to Florida Winter, which actually just means that it gets dark at like five-thirty and the temperature is just cool enough outside to make being inside uncomfortable.

What sort of bullshit winter is this?

Misha debates getting up and opening a window when the bedroom door pops open. 

“Hey, I was thinking,” Tony says without greeting.

“You were thinking that I can get back to work soon?” Misha asks with an innocent smile, marking his place in book number five hundred. Or so it feels.

“No.” Tony presses his eyebrows together. “Well, yes. But that isn’t what I’m talking about right now.” He crosses to the bed, pulls out a necklace box, pops it open.

“You had your mark made into a charm?” Misha runs a fingertip over the delicate silver charm. “Why?”

“Well, I just thought after…” Tony trails off, his eyes shift to the red scar on Misha’s shoulder. It still looks red and raw. “You know, _everything_ , that you may not want to get it on you again.”

“Of course I want it again. I’m _yours_ , Tony.” Misha smiles, the smallest tip of his lips. “How many more times do I have to say that before you get it through your cute little head?”

“Gosh, I dunno, Misha.” Tony scrunches his face. “At least once more, I guess.”

“Not if I get your mark again.” Misha takes Tony’s hand, places it over his heart. “Right here, and then you can just have a look at it anytime you need a reminder.”

Misha watches his cheeks go pink, one of his favorite things to make happen. “I can get rid of the necklace,” he says, starting to pull it away.

“What if I want that too?” Misha cocks his head playfully. “Can’t miss any chances to tell everyone I’m yours.” He pauses. “Well, only the people who _know_ will know, but…” He shrugs.

“I have a feeling the number of people who know is about to be quite a bit higher,” Tony says with a smirk, nudging Misha to turn so he can clasp the necklace around his neck. “So be careful with this,” he mutters into Misha’s ear before planting a light kiss behind it.

“Hey, c’mere,” Misha tugs Tony up onto the bed, gets Tony’s knees settled on either side of his hips. Tony leans in, kisses him softly. 

His fingers drift to the buttons of Tony’s shirt as their kiss deepens. “Can I?” 

Tony breaks away to nod. 

Misha’s gotten better at this over time, his fingers no longer trip over themselves as he rids Tony of his shirt. His eyes fall to Tony’s crest. He traces it gently. “I can’t wait until we match again.”

“What if I got something for you?” Tony blurts. 

“Huh?”

“Something that wouldn’t match. That’s just for you.” He guides Misha’s free hand down to his hip. “It could go right here. No one but you would ever get to see it.”

“Oh, that’s…” Misha swallows, his hand crumbles the material under it.

“What would you like to see there?” Tony asks. 

Misha’s breath catches at the thought. The thought of choosing something for Tony to wear for the rest of his life. “My initials. In Cyrillic.” He blinks. “Oh, fuck. I didn’t think, I know that you’re, that I’m not--”

Tony pulls Misha into a desperate kiss. “Yes, holy shit, _yes._ I totally want something that is just, just _you_ on me.” 

He shifts uncomfortably, drawing Misha’s eyes down to where he’s already visibly half hard. It makes his mouth go dry with want. “Should I take care of that for you?” he asks, running a hand across it.

“W-would you?” Tony stumbles over the words a bit, and Misha loves that it’s something that he can make happen.

“God, always,” Misha mutters, pulling his pants open. He encourages Tony to scoot up until he’s braced against the headboard and his hips are right in Misha’s reach. He revels in the moan that escapes Tony when he gets to work.

//

“Bugsy,” Tony calls, as they walk in, “You have to stop with the death metal, man.”

“It’s my meditation music.” Bugsy is grinning when he comes in from the back.

“What are you meditating over?” Misha asks. 

“That’s personal, my friend.” His grin spreads. “What can I do for you, fellas?”

“We need just a couple of small things,” Tony starts. “We need you to re-do my crest for Misha--”

“Oh, yeah. I heard about that. Sorry man.”

“S’okay,” Misha answers with a shrug. 

“Same place? I heard it’s pretty scared and I don’t know if it will work over that. Lemme see.”

“Uh, no, actually--”

“Over his heart,” Tony blurts out. 

Misha smiles over at him while he goes absolutely crimson. Fucking a, the color kissing along his cheekbones is lovely.

Bugsy laughs. “Okay, and what else?”

“Something for me, I’m getting initials in Cyrillic.” He places a hand on his hip. “Right here.”

“I don’t know any Cyrillic, man.” Bugsy frowns. 

“This Cyrillic is easy, actually,” Misha says. “But I can write it down to show you.”

Bugsy hands him a pen and paper. He writes out MAC.

“Mac?” Tony raises his eyebrows. “Not gonna lie, this isn’t exactly what I expected your initials to look like.”

“Yeah, they aren’t actually that exciting so far as initials go. Yours are cooler,” Misha chuckles, then adds ЭРС.

Tony looks up at Bugsy. “Three things today.” He pauses, swallows, glances back to Misha. “Uh, that is, if you don’t mind two things in one day?”

“What do you mean? You want...” His eyes flick to the paper and back. He doesn’t dare to believe that Tony really means, “Yours on me too?”

“Yeah, if you would want that...” Tony trails off, looks unsure. 

“If you, um, if you really want that.” His voice wobbles, he can’t believe that he’s showing his doubts, his _weakness_ right here. In this moment that is supposed to be so good for them, all he can think about is the day that Tony sent him away.

“Can we have a minute, Bugsy?”

“Sure, boss. Gimmie a shout when you’re ready.” He dips into the back room as Tony turns fully to Misha.

“Hey, listen to me.” He cups Misha’s face, pulls his eyes up. “I know I can never make up for what I did, what I _said_ to you, but I can promise you that it will never happen again, okay?”

“Yeah, I...okay,” Misha answers. He wants to believe it, to believe Tony with his entire heart, trust him the way he did the first time. But he’s learned he shouldn’t give someone his whole heart. Not all at once. 

Just in case he ever has to leave again, he’ll have some piece of himself left. 

Tony steps back, straightens his shoulders. “Most of us use our word around here, but it’s always been different between me an’ you, right?” 

He offers Misha his hand. 

Misha stares at it and then flicks his eyes up to Tony’s. “Right.”

They shake on it and Misha lets himself be pulled into Tony’s arms, lets himself be wrapped up by him. 

“Can you, uh, can you teach me how to write my initials?” Tony asks, earnest. “I’d like them to be in my handwriting. On you.” Tony swallows. “And could yours be in your handwriting on me?”

Misha offers Tony a little smile, realizes he never got any part of his heart back from Tony the first time. That it’s been here from the very start of this mess. He feels tiny and fragile at the thought, but Tony is looking at him with something like resolve. It’s a little confusing, but it somehow helps him settle his feelings. 

“I think I’d like that,” he manages after a moment.

Tony picks up the pen, wiggles it about a bit. “Care to teach me some Cyrillic?” he asks, his smile bright, open, and, and _kind_.

He shivers when Misha folds his fingers around his hand to guide the pen. It’s just a small thing, but it helps make Misha feel a little better. Makes him think that maybe he has a small part of Tony’s heart, too.


	18. Chapter 18

A summons appears at the door two weeks later. In true Habs fashion, the letter is delivered by hand and sealed with rich red wax stamped with their ugly mob symbol. Tony does not take care when ripping into it. 

“Neutral site meeting,” he announces to the small crowd. “In three days.”

Alex is flipping his knife open and closed, a habit. “Who do you want?”

Tony stuffs the note back in the envelope. “You wanna come?” 

“Hell yeah, I do.” 

“Pick another. Misha’ll be coming, too. We’ll leave early Friday morning.” 

//

“They could have picked a better place, this place is shit.” Alex sneers up at the bland building that the Habs picked. It’s in the middle of rural Pennsylvania, and, while Alex is right that it could be a bit nicer, at least it’s definitely neutral. 

“Could be worse.” Tony shrugs. “C’mon, and don’t do anything stupid unless I do first.”

“What counts as stupid?” Alex asks. 

“When the bullets start, you know he’s reached peak stupid,” Bray answers, patting Alex on the shoulder.

Good point. Tony checks his gun to make sure it’s loaded and slips it back into its holster and looks over at Misha. “Are you ready?” 

He nods. 

“Let’s go.” 

Carey is already at the table when Tony, Alex, Misha, and Bray arrive. His two lackeys stand and quickly frisk them, throwing all their weapons on the table. Misha straightens his shirt, making sure his necklace is hanging over the collar in plain sight. 

“Only fair if we do the same, eh?”

They agree and Tony has Bray and Alex pat them all down, tossing a couple guns and a knife on the table. 

“Please, have a seat,” Carey says. 

Misha seems anxious, staying close to Tony at the table. He catches him rubbing the charm on his necklace. Tony wonders if one of the guys in the room was the one who tortured him. For a moment he sees red, imagines snatching his gun back up and shooting the bastard right in the fucking face.

But he remembers he’s supposed to be listening to Carey Price right now. 

“...lieve we can come to some sort of arrangement.” 

“You have nothing we want,” Tony says. “I only came to inform you of a few things.” 

The Habs stiffen. “That’s unfortunate to hear.”

Tony wants this over with. “First and foremost - If we ever find Jo sniffing around our house again, he’ll end up at the bottom of the Gulf, is that clear?”

Carey inclines his head in agreement. 

“Misha is ours, you have absolutely no jurisdiction over him. He is fully under our protection and any attack on him is an attack on the entire Tampa mob.”

One of the lackeys laugh and Tony has to stop Alex from standing. It’s not worth it. 

“We’ve taken Matt Peca back. He’s been operating in deep cover for a while now but he’s bored with you fuckers. He’s already been reinstated as a full Lightning member, effective the day I didn’t burn your headquarters down.” 

“You can’t just take one of our men for free.” 

“We sent you Drouin, didn’t we?” Tony spits. “And consider this our last peaceful conversation moving forward. You are not welcome at our docks. If one of my men _ever_ catches you at our port pushing ivory...my command is shoot on sight. And I don’t mean in the knee.” 

“We really struck a nerve with you, Cirelli,” Carey says. “It’s nice to know you wear your weaknesses on your sleeve.”

“I would never consider Misha a weakness.” Tony stands, reaching to casually re-holster his guns. “But I should thank you for what you did, underestimating him so dramatically. What a gift you threw away.” 

“Feel free to dig through our trash anytime,” the guy on Carey’s right says, looking pleased with himself. 

Tony’s caught off-guard when Misha moves, reaching to the middle of the table for a gun. He chambers a round and takes a shot in one smooth motion. 

It hits the guy right between the eyes. 

There’s a moment when the world stops as the Hab collapses. 

Almost everyone scrambles for a weapon when time moves again, but not Tony. No, he looks to Misha instead. He isn’t surprised that he doesn’t see the guy from the docks with the 2x4 anymore. 

He sees so much _more_.

Carey raises his hand in half-surrender. “It seems I may have underestimated you after all Misha.”

“It’s Mikhail,” he says, gun shifting towards Carey. “And show Anthony the respect he deserves.”

“Very well,” he agrees, tipping his head to Tony. “I suppose we’re finished here.”

Tony smiles. “Maybe someday you’ll learn how to manage amazing talent you receive .” He throws his head for effect. “But thanks in the meantime. Have a great rest of your day.” 

He turns and struts out, the others fall in behind him.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bray says as soon as they’re back in their rental. “I’m done going to meetings with you two assholes.”

“Oh, come on, babe. Don’t act like you wouldn’t shoot someone for me,” Alex says with a laugh.

“I would do no such thing,” Bray snaps. 

Tony threads his fingers into Misha’s, grinning because he knows better.


	19. Chapter 19

Alex pours another round from their finest bottle as Stammer laughs about the look on Carey Price’s face for the third time since they returned. 

“God, I wish I could’ve been there,” he says, settling back into one of the overstuffed leather armchairs. 

Tony knows Misha’s still got some adrenaline coursing through his blood, still a little high strung. He puts his hand on his bouncing knee. Misha throws back the end of his whiskey, sets his glass on the table. 

“Another?” Alex asks, reaching for the bottle again. 

“N-no. No, I’m...I think I should sleep this off.” He looks to Tony, bites his lip. “It’s been a long day.”

Tony hums, places his hand on the back of Misha’s neck, squeezes. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

Misha shivers. 

They don’t _race_ upstairs but there are definitely quick good-nights and and even quicker feet. They turn the corner on the landing and Tony can’t help but get his hands around Misha’s waist, spin him around so they can kiss.

“I believe you promised me something before all of this happened,” Misha says, already unbuttoning Tony’s shirt.

“Oh?” He smiles, letting Misha slip his palm inside his shirt to feel him up. 

“Do you remember what it was?” He pushes Tony’s shirt over the cap of his shoulder, traces the new skin with his lips. 

“I don’t know, you might have to refresh my memory.” Tony catches Misha’s gaze, doesn’t blink. “Come on, say it.”

Misha brushes his thumb over Tony’s hip where the letters of his name are inked. He grabs his wrist and leads them the last few steps to Tony’s door, to _their_ door. 

“Dominate me,” he says, once they’re inside.

An electric thrill crawls up Tony’s spine. “Say it again.”

“Dominate me. Put me in my place. Make me yours.”

Tony grips Misha by the ends of his hair, tugs so his chin snaps up. “You’re already mine.” He presses his other hand to Misha’s chest, over where his new mark sits. 

“Show me.”

That spurs Tony into motion and he backs Misha up against the wall with a few rough shoves, pressing his forearm against his chest to hold him there. He takes a kiss, bites at Misha’s bottom lip. “Are you going to be good for me?”

“No.” He follows the word with a kiss and a smirk, just before hooking his foot around Tony’s leg and buckling both knees. 

He slips away and Tony catches himself against the wall. “Who taught you that?”

Misha shrugs, cocky. “I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve.”

Tony turns to face him, cracks his knuckles. “Tell me your safe word.”

“Spitfire.”

“I’m not stopping unless you use it.” He pushes his hair out of his face, wiping the sweat already prickling at his hairline. “But I’m not going to hurt you. Not…” The _like them_ goes unsaid but it fills the space between them anyway. 

“I trust you,” Misha says. He steps up into Tony’s space, the moment softening just a little. “And I want this. Want you. Okay?”

Tony nods, the little anxious voice in his head quieting. “Okay.”

“And, uh, what’s your word? Just in case.” He’s gentle when he asks, gaze fixed somewhere around Tony’s adam’s apple. 

“Otter.”

Misha smiles, takes a big step back. “Game on then, babe.”

He doesn’t want to hurt Misha, so Tony goes for his wrists, catching one despite Misha’s attempts at block him. He squeezes as Misha tries to tug away and is so _pleased_ when he sees his knees go a little weak. He rushes Misha toward another wall, knocking a picture down and kicking the nightstand out of the way. 

Misha gasps when his back hits the plaster. 

Tony takes his other wrist, easy as can be, and pins it up by Misha’s head. “Are you going to be good for me?” he asks again, dipping down to press a kiss to the raised scar under Misha’s collarbone. 

He shivers and Tony thinks he’s got him under his thumb. 

“Is that all you got?” Misha’s eyes are wild with a challenge. 

Tony tugs Misha forward and spins him, gets his back pressed against his chest, Tony’s arm wrapped tightly around Misha’s throat. "I was born for this," he hisses against Misha's ear. “Raised in it. You can’t beat me.”

Misha gapes, struggles to breathe against the pressure of Tony’s arm.

“So I’m not going to ask again: are you going to be good for me?” 

Misha’s fingertips dig deep into Tony’s forearm, deep enough to bruise. He jerks his chin in a nod and Tony releases him, lets him suck air into his lungs as he catches himself on the edge of the mattress. 

“What do you say?”

Misha’s knees hit the floor. “Yes.” 

Tony drags his fingers through Misha’s hair, scratches at his scalp. He watches until the bright red of his cheeks fades and his eyes flutter shut. Then he pulls. 

Misha reaches up for his hands, crying out at the sudden pain. 

“Hands behind your back,” Tony commands, releasing his hair when he complies. So sweet and obedient. _Perfect_. “Keep them there until I tell you. Crossed just like that. Can you do that?”

Misha whines. “I’ll be good.”

Tony lets his words settle in his chest, lets himself revel in the bend of Misha’s neck, the spread of his knees, the way his shirt stretches across his chest. “Always so good for me, yeah?”

“Yes, always.”

Tony drags a finger down the side of Misha’s neck, into the hollow of his throat, the open neck of his shirt. He pops the first button and then another, exposing his skin inch by inch. Another button and it’s open enough to tuck over his shoulders, bind his arms a little. Tony traces the shape of Misha’s pecs, pinches one nipple without warning just to see Misha squirm. 

“ _Tony_ ,” he whines, arching his chest forward. 

“Yeah, lemme hear you.” He takes Misha’s mouth in a kiss, hand pressed against the front of his throat tilting his chin up. 

Misha moans and Tony swallows it up. 

“Show me what you want,” Tony says, losing his patience. “Get on the bed and show me.”

Misha shakes his shirt the rest of the way off before rising back to his feet with more grace than Tony expects. He thumbs open the button of his slacks, kicks off his nice shoes. He holds Tony’s gaze when he pushes his briefs down his thighs, lets them slip all the way to the floor. 

He takes a deliberate step into Tony’s space. “I thought you were going to make me.”

“I could,” Tony says, keeping his voice as nonchalant as he can. “But I think it might be more fun if you get on the bed, hold your knees, and beg me for it.”

“ _Fuck_.” Misha rushes for the bed, mattress squeaking when he lays on it. 

Tony waits until he’s settled, until he doesn’t hear any movement, to turn around. 

Misha’s flat on his back, one foot planted on the bed, knee bent. His other knee is in the air, pulled back to his chest. Spread open and waiting just for Tony.

Tony licks his lips. “Look at you, so good for me.” 

Misha’s skin is turning pink, the blush trailing down his neck and chest. His thigh twitches in his hand. 

“How long do you think you can wait?” Tony cups himself through his pants, unable to hold back. 

Misha whines. 

“What if I got my mouth on you, right here where you’re so sweet and open for me?” Tony slips a finger between Misha’s cheeks. “How long could you wait, then?”

“Tony, please.” His voice quivers. “God, _please._ ” 

“Look at me.” 

Misha’s eyes snap open, finding Tony immediately. 

“I’m going to make you fall apart on my tongue, okay? And then I’m going to fuck you until you cry.” 

Misha looks like he’s never wanted anything more in his life. 

Tony falls to his knees between Misha’s spread thighs. He pushes Misha’s bent leg up, fingers digging into the meat of it. “Hold this one, too.” 

He does without question, presenting his ass for Tony’s taking. 

And take he does. 

He kisses his way down the back of Misha’s thigh, bites the swell of his ass, before licking over his hole. Misha’s startled gasp goes straight to Tony’s dick. 

It’s easy to get Misha wet and messy, dragging his tongue across every inch of sensitive skin on display. He spreads Misha wide with his thumbs, licks inside. 

“Oh god,” Misha sighs. “Fuck me.”

Tony pulls back, flicks just the barest tip of his tongue against where Misha wants him, teasing. Misha thrusts his hips forward, trying to find pleasure again but Tony lands a slap to his ass. “Be good.”

Tony counts to ten before putting his mouth back on him, stretching him open on his tongue. Misha’s breaths are short, barely more than little gasps. Tony reaches his hand up to feel his stomach heaving with each one. The effort of not moving, of letting Tony bring him to the edge, clearly overwhelming. 

It makes Tony’s dick twitch in his pants, watching Misha get desperate. He slips his whole thumb into him, just barely slick enough from his spit, and watches Misha’s thighs shake with need. 

“You’re perfect like this.” 

Misha keens. 

“Are you desperate enough?” he asks, holding Misha open. “How much more can you take? For me?”

“Please, Tony. I can’t.” 

He pulls free and Misha groans at the loss, his hands struggling to keep his knees pulled back. Tony climbs onto the bed, uses his hips to hold Misha’s legs up and open. “Who do you belong to?” he asks, planting his hands next to Misha’s head. 

“You.” 

“Louder.”

“You!”

“Who do you belong to?” Tony demands. 

“You, only you, Tony, please, only you,” he sobs, looking away from Tony’s gaze. 

Tony kisses the arch of his cheekbone, gentle. “That’s right, baby. All mine, whenever I want.” 

Misha nods, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. 

“But you know what else?” Tony asks, voice still so calm. He traces the lines of Misha’s neck, the curve of his shoulder. “I’m yours just the same.” 

Misha blinks and droplets race down his face. Tony tilts his chin and brushes them away. “Hey look at me.”

Misha does.

“I’m going to be right back, alright? Be good?”

He sniffles but nods and Tony rushes for the bathroom, scouring the cabinet for anything mint flavored he can swish around his mouth. The bottle he finds is probably expired but it’s something. He spits the mouthwash in the sink. Good enough. 

He kicks his way out of his pants on the way out of the bathroom. Misha is still on the bed. He dropped his thighs so his feet are flat on the mattress, one arm folded over his face. Tony is startled by how beautiful he is, how lovely his body is when it’s quiet and still. 

He climbs back on the bed, pulling Misha’s arm away. “I’m back.” 

The intensity of the scene, everything they’d built up with the fight and the obedience and the teasing, is gone now. It’s just the two of them in this bed, no roles to play or acts to put on. Tony kisses Misha and adores the way he opens up so sweetly for him. He takes his time with it, stoking the coals they still have burning. “You wanna keep going?”

Misha nods. “Wanna feel you.” 

Tony reaches over to the crooked nightstand to find the bottle of lube. He makes sure to keep a hand on Misha while he’s searching through all the papers and loose bullets in the drawer, finally finding the little bottle in the very back. 

“Didn’t we just use it like, the other day?”

Tony sighs. “I have a lot of shit in this drawer.”

“Maybe we should just leave it out on the table.” He re-situates himself, spreading his thighs open wider. “Easy access.” 

Tony squirts too much lube out, distracted. “Yeah.” He fits a finger to where Misha is still wet, sliding in with barely any resistance. 

Misha hums, throws his head back, baring his neck. 

Tony has to get his lips on it as he stretches Misha with one and then another finger, making room for himself. “You feel so good,” he says against Misha’s skin. 

Fingers twine in Tony’s hair, pulling him away from Misha’s neck. “C’mon,” he whispers before taking Tony’s lips in a kiss. “Please, come on.”

A zing of arousal sparks Tony back to the nightstand drawer, knocking a few more bits of ammo onto the floor in his search. 

Misha laughs, just a little almost-giggle, tugging him back to bed. “If you have to search, just forget about it.” 

“Wha…” Tony doesn’t even finish the word, too overwhelmed. “Are you sure?”

“I trust you.” 

Tony closes the drawer with a snap and settles back between Misha’s knees. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Misha parrots, tossing the lube back toward Tony. 

Tony slicks himself up, tries to think about something unsexy for like, two seconds in hopes of not embarrassing himself but he can’t. Not with Misha spread out for him like this. “Hold your knees for me. Lemme see you.”

Misha complies and Tony doesn’t make him wait, can barely keep himself from going slow as he presses in and in and in, until his hips are snug against Misha’s ass. “Made for me, aren’t you?” 

“Fuck, yes. Only you.” 

The heat from earlier trickles back into the room as Tony starts to move, working Misha over as slowly as he can stand. He leans over, planting his hands on either side of Misha’s head, and makes each thrust purposeful, getting into a rhythm. 

Can I--” Misha cuts off in a gasp. “Can I touch you? Wanna touch you, Tony, please.” 

Tony nods, shakes his hair off his forehead. Misha gets his arms around Tony’s neck, pulls him down into a kiss. Misha rolls his hips, meeting Tony halfway each time, urging him on. 

“Faster,” Misha begs. 

Tony tries, rocking into Misha as fast as he can, thighs and abs burning with the effort. Misha cries out, clinging to Tony’s shoulder, and he focuses on that angle, nailing it over and over again until Misha falls apart. 

“I’m gonna….I’m gonna…” Misha chants between gasping breaths. “Tony, I’m…”

Tony wraps his hand around him, keeps his hips moving. “Do it. Just like this, c’mon. Wanna see you mess yourself up.” 

Misha is almost frantic now, eyes squeezed shut as he chases his orgasm. Tony’s almost there himself, so close to falling over the edge. He _needs…_

He takes Misha’s wrists and pins them to the bed, throwing his full weight into it. Misha cries out, making a mess of his stomach and squeezing so sweetly around Tony still inside. He admires his handiwork before grinding in as deep as he can, a few final thrusts, and comes. 

They stay still, catching their breath. Tony leans down, traces Misha’s jaw with the tip of his nose, lingers on a kiss when he pulls out. He still has Misha’s wrists pinned and something warm curls up in his chest seeing Misha sated and spent underneath him. “You’re a mess,” he says between kisses. “Look so good like this.” 

Misha groans. “Shut up, god please shut up. Your mouth is a menace.”

“Oh?” Tony leans back, smiles. “You don’t want to hear how you’re made for this? For me? How I’d keep you like this all the time, if we didn’t have work to do?” He lets go of one of Misha’s wrists, trails his hand down Misha’s side, through the mess on his stomach. He slips his fingers between Misha’s legs, between his cheeks, feels where he’s slick and messy. “Mess you up all the time.” 

Misha squirms when Tony presses a finger back inside, easy as can be. His face flushes all blotchy and hot, embarrassed. He bites his lip when Tony adds another. 

“Too much?”

“You’re the worst.”

Tony curls his fingers just right and delights in the way Misha’s dick gives a halfhearted twitch, how his thighs shake against the spark of pleasure. He pulls out, wipes off on the sheet. “Maybe next time we’ll go for two, eh?”

Misha throws his arm over his face again. “Fuck.” 

“Stay there, I’m going to get a towel.”

He mumbles something that’s definitely in Russian and most certainly a bit snippy. Tony is certain he’s never going to want anyone else in his bed. 

He catches his reflection in the mirror as he wets a couple cloths, smiles at the flush high on his cheeks, the mess of his hair. Misha did that. 

“Here,” he says, climbing back onto the bed. “For your face. I’ll do the rest.” 

Tony’s gentle wiping Misha down: his chest and stomach, around his dick and the inside of his thighs, his ass. It’s not as good as a shower, but Misha looks sixty seconds away from falling asleep so Tony drags the messy sheets out from underneath him and grabs a blanket from the closet. 

Misha insists on spooning Tony properly, arms wrapped snug around his waist. He burrows into his neck, presses one quick kiss there. “Told you I’d protect you,” he whispers, breath tickling the hairs there. 

Tony smiles and snuggles back against him. Sleep comes quickly to them both.


	20. Chapter 20

A few days later, Tony goes back to Davis Island to see Vinny. He wants to thank him for his advice, for giving the worst day of his life a happy ending. For everything.

Vinny smiles like he was expecting him, already has a tea kettle going. Tony feels a little less awkward drinking from the delicate set this time.

Tony sets the cup down gently. “You were right. About everything. Misha is...he’s perfect.”

“Mmhmm,” Vinny hums, sipping his tea. “Did you tell him that you love him?”

“I told him that I’m his.” Tony smiles to himself, thinks about how romantic it was to finally say it.

Vinny sets his cup down so hard that it rattles. “That is _not_ telling him that you love him.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have to say the words. All three of them. In order.”

“Don’t you think that he knows?” Tony asks, frowning. Romance soured. 

“Anthony.” Vinny’s voice is soft. “You have to say them because you don’t ever want the opportunity to regret not saying them, and in this line of work…” Vinny shakes his head. “Look, just trust me, okay?”

Tony blinks, and then suddenly he’s fifteen again, being trained by DJ Smith for the Life. 

_“You can never, ever get attached to anyone. Not ever,” DJ is saying to him._

_“Why not, what do you mean?” Tony asks._

_“You can’t allow yourself to show any weaknesses.”_

_“How is that a weakne--_

_Tony is backhanded. He places a hand to his cheek, surprised. “So you think that a girl should die because your enemies know that she is important to you?”_

_“No, I don’t think that--”_

_“Or some boy, whatever. You wanna see a boy you care about tortured to death because he might know something about you? He doesn’t, of course, but it’s your fault it happened.”_

_“Why would he--”_

_“Or_ you _, you’re dead because you went after someone they took from you. All because you cared. That is the number one rule of the Life. There is no room to care. Zero. The sooner you learn that, the better."_

But Tony’s mind jumps back a bit further, lets that memory be replaced by what his mom said to him just before he started training. 

_“Someday you will find someone and how much you love them will be all that matters. You’d look past anything, give everything because you love them.” She pulls him into a hug, holds him close._

_“And it’s worth it. You have to remember that more than anything else, Anthony. Love is absolutely always worth it. Don’t let them convince you otherwise.”_

“Oh my god.” Tony sits up, eyes going wide with realization. “You’re totally right.”

“I know.” Vinny’s voice is light as he smiles into his cup.

Tony thanks him and rushes right out the door, no hesitation. He has to get back to the house. He wants to tell Misha that he--

“Hey, boss. I have something that I need to run by you,” Stammer says the second he walks through the door. 

“Does it have to be right now?” Tony asks, trying not to sound exasperated. The look on Stammer’s face suggests that he fails. “I’m sorry, what’s going on?”

Stammer starts droning on about something that is the lamest, most boring thing he’s ever heard and Tony can’t wait to get through it. He doesn’t have time for this. 

A crash comes from the kitchen, clattering pans or bowls. “I should go check on that,” he says, already heading that way. 

“I need you do sign off on this, Cirelli!” 

Tony waves a hand behind him as he pushes through the swinging door into the kitchen. 

It’s absolutely trashed. Like, Alex is going to have a meltdown, trashed. Misha has apparently tried to make...something with ice cream, if the artistic splatters on the wall are anything to go by.

Misha's grinning at him, chocolate sauce on his neck and below his ear. He holds out two small drinks and is just completely over the moon. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be back.”

Tony opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, completely at a loss.

“I made milkshakes! Here, try it!” Misha says, putting a straw into one of the glasses and holding it out. He takes a sip, and it’s horrible. Somehow Misha took ice cream and milk and made something that tastes like dirt. He opens his mouth, intending to tell him that it isn’t the greatest, but that isn’t what comes out. 

“I love you.”

Misha absolutely lights up. “You...yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tony blushes, looks down at his glass.

“That isn’t something I thought I’d ever hear,” Misha says, slipping into Tony’s space. He runs a knuckle along Tony’s cheekbone, leans in and presses a soft kiss to Tony’s lips. “But you know I love you too.” He grins. “Guess I finally cracked that stone heart of yours.”

“You know that you did that a long time ago,” Tony answers, reaching out to give Misha’s arm a little shove. He grabs it.

“Still nice to hear it,” he says before pulling Tony into another sweet, chocolaty kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it! 🎉
> 
> Thank you so much to all of you for coming along on the ride! 
> 
> Every one of your comments have meant so much to us along the way! We love you!!


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